Mistaken Identity
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: A collaborative effort by FraidyCat and Serialgal. Charlie is the victim of an elaborate setup. Don deals with both his brother's legal, and personal, issues. The fallout puts both of their lives in danger. Now complete.
1. Lasagna Dreams

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 1: Lasagna Dreams**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** _(a) a denial or disavowal of legal claim… (b) a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer…_ Definition courtesy Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam Company, Springfield, MA, U.S.A. Copyright 1979. COLLEGIATE is a registered trademark. **Furthermore,** NUMB3RS is a trademark of CBS Studios Inc. TM, © and ® by Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved. **In addition**, the authors unfortunately do not own characters popularized by the landmark CBS series NUMB3RS, but respectfully supplement with a few of our own. _Mistaken Identity_, a Rabid Raccoons production, is not recommended for young children. This disclaimer applicable to _Mistaken Identity_ in its entirety. The nonprofit corporation known as "Rabid Raccoons" further disavows claim to any or all fanfictional works attributed to FraidyCat and/or Serialgal. At this point we also deny any connection to unsolved federal crimes. The compilation of this disclaimer took longer than the story you are about to read. Attorneys were involved.

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Considering the facts, Don was in a pretty decent mood.

Of course, it helped that one of those facts was his father's lasagna. He had enough experience to know that he could talk the old man into making it -- Alan always had the makings of lasagna in the house -- if he could just get there before his father started cooking something else. Hell, he wouldn't even have to work very hard for his lasagna. For one thing, Alan loved it when either of his sons requested anything he could easily do for them. For another, Don had been gone for 10 days at an advanced training program Quantico offered. His Dad would be so happy to see him, lasagna would be nothing.

Don felt an evil grin form as he strode down the hall of the Math & Sciences building at CalSci, toward his brother's office. Charlie and his father would both be speechless when Don finally gave them more details on the mysterious Quantico class. He had purposefully left them with very little information, because frankly, he had been a little concerned about pulling it off. The class had been great, though. Well-attended and informative -- and now he was ready to tell them the name: "Applying Mathematical Principles to Advanced Field Investigative Techniques". Don, even though enrolled as a student, had been one of the special speakers. Charlie would have an aneurysm when he realized a fellow Princeton graduate was the consultant who helped develop the whole thing, but it served him right. His little brother had put the Bureau off on Don's last two requests for help. Besides, the little jerk forgot to pick him up at the airport.

That was one of the facts that should have him in a worse frame of mind. He had stood on the sidewalk outside LAX with his luggage in 100-degree heat until a security officer threatened to bust him for loitering. Moron hadn't even been impressed with Don's F.B.I. I.D. He had kept one hand on his weapon and talked tough, and had obviously been on the job too long. He saw terrorists everywhere. Rather than ruin his mood or risk being on the six o'clock news as the tragic victim of a renegade TSA agent, Don had finally picked up his bag and headed back into the terminal. Unable to reach Charlie on his cell, he had momentarily hesitated. If he caught one of the cabs outside, he might end up passing Charlie. It didn't take Don long to make up his mind. Charlie had not left him a voice mail of any kind and had turned his own phone off. No doubt he was buried in a mountain of Blue Books, ignoring everything. Don never should have counted on him to remember; not the week after finals, anyway.

In the cab, Don had glanced at his watch and thought of the lasagna plan. He wasn't due back in the office until the next day, so he had the rest of the afternoon off anyway. Feeling like giving Charlie a hard time first, he diverted the driver to CalSci. Hopefully Charlie had driven his car to work today, and not ridden his bike. Don could drag him away from his desk with a little well-placed guilt, he was pretty sure. Studying math all week had him missing the geek, although he would eat his gun before he admitted that.

Now, Don plodded down a narrow corridor in the faculty offices wing, deciding that he would make his brother reimburse him for the cab. He shifted his heavy bag to his other hand, wondering idly at the activity level in the hall. Finals were over and summer session had not yet started, so he hadn't expected to see so many people.

His steps slowed and his hackles rose.

All of these _old_ people. In suits. Obviously, not students.

Picking up speed again, he rounded the last corner before Charlie's office and bounced off an LAPD detective going in the other direction. Don's finely honed investigative mind deduced that the man was a detective as soon as his eyes registered the crime scene tape across Charlie's doorway.

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Somehow, Big Brother Eppes managed to channel Agent Eppes. In milliseconds, he was magically teleported to the doorway of Charlie's office and shoving his badge in someone's face. "Special Agent Eppes, F.B.I. This is my brother's office. What the hell is going on here?" He bit off the words harshly and angrily, daring anyone to give him bad news. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined when the LAPD detective shifted his weight to look more closely at the ID, revealing the chalk outline of a body on the floor in front of the desk, drawn through a pool of blood.

Don paled and swayed into the officer, who grimaced in sympathy and put out his hands to steady the larger man. "Hey, hey now," he intoned lowly, steering Don backwards and away from the office. "You need to sit down, Agent? Maybe some water?"

Don lifted a hand to clutch at the detective's suit jacket. "Please," he begged, "just tell me that wasn't my brother you found in there. Eppes. Dr. Charles Eppes." He staggered a little, reaching back for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. "Oh, God, I should have a picture. I might have a picture." He looked pleadingly and frantically into the compassion-filled eyes staring back at him. "Charlie?"

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End, Chapter 1


	2. In Which A Fed Loses His Shoes

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 2: In Which a Fed Loses His Shoes**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

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"Pete – it's okay, you can let him in." Don's head swiveled at the familiar gruff voice, and the sight of Lieutenant Gary Walker did nothing to alleviate his rising panic.

The detective stepped back, and Don dropped his bag and pushed into the room, barely aware that he was moving. "Gary – what in the hell's going on? Where's Charlie?"

Walker moved forward and put a reassuring hand on Don's shoulder. "He's at the hospital – relax, that outline's not his. He was unconscious – knocked on the head it appeared; they took him forty minutes ago. When I heard what was going on, and that your brother was involved, I came down here myself."

Don took a deep shaky breath and looked at the outline, noting that it was drawn around a pool of congealing blood. "Then who was that?"

Walker's eyes fell on the outline. "The vic was a student, and our word is he has rap sheet for drugs. We found a kilo of cocaine in his book-bag, packaged for dealing. We think this may have been directed at the student, and Charlie just got in the way. We have a lot to look into here, but that's the preliminary thought. The victim was shot, close range." His eyes traveled toward Charlie's desk, which looked even more disorganized that it usually did. Papers littered the floor. "It looks like your brother may have tried to fight them off."

Don was already backing toward the door, struggling to deal with the sickening vision of Charlie, trying to fight off armed men. "Where'd they take him?"

"Huntington. We tried your office, looking for you – we didn't realize you were out of town. We got Reeves, and she called your dad. Get going, we'll keep you posted."

"Thanks," Don tossed over his shoulder, and he headed out the door and flipped open his cell phone. He grabbed his bag almost as an afterthought, breaking into a run as he headed down the hall.

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"You idiots! What do you mean, you didn't get him?" The prissy nasal voice on the phone line was filled with fury.

Jimmy MacPhee, generally known as Mack, was not used to being addressed in that tone of voice by anyone; no matter how much money they were paying. He bristled, and snapped back into the cell phone. "There was some kid in there with him. When we tried to go after him, the damn kid pulled a knife on us. We had to take him out, and people heard the shot and came running. We had to get out of there."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Just the professor. When it went bad, we made it into another empty office down the hall, and after the people ran past, we slipped out. People were busy freakin' out down the hall; I don't think anyone saw us."

"Why didn't you wait until he was alone?"

Mack's jaw worked, and he replied impatiently through clenched teeth. "We thought he was. There was a whole group of kids in there, and it looked like they all came out. We didn't realize that one of them had stayed behind. And who in the hell would think some damn science student would pull a knife?"

"Math student."

"Whatever. Look, we just need to set somethin' else up."

"No – just sit tight. I have to think this through. Did you at least plant the drugs?"

"Yeah. We didn't have a lot of time, but we stuffed them in his backpack." 

"Are you sure it was his?" There was a dead pause.

Mack responded finally, doubt in his voice. "Hell, I guess I don't know. It was sitting next to his desk, but maybe it was the kid's."

There was a groan from the other end, and some indecipherable muttering. "Fine. Just great. Look, back off for now, but stay available. I'll let you know what I decide."

"What about money?"

"I don't know if you deserve any. If I sign you up to finish this, you'll get the agreed-upon amount. If not, I'll let you know." The phone went dead, and Mack scowled.

Muttering curses under his breath, he threw the van into gear. This was what he deserved for getting involved with a bunch of eggheads.

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Don pulled into the Huntington Memorial Hospital parking lot with a screech of tires. He had ordered the cab driver to drop him off at Charlie's house, so he could pick up his SUV. The cab driver was so slow, he was thankful that he made that decision – he was sure he more than made up the time it took to stop and get his vehicle. Even so, the traffic made him nearly insane; by the time he got there he was in a stew of impatience, tinged with more than a little guilt. Here he was, pissed off at Charlie for not picking him up at the airport, while his brother was being beaten up by a bunch of thugs.

He jogged in through the emergency room entrance, and was greeted by the sight of his team, sitting in tight group. Megan caught sight of him and spoke to David and Colby, and they rose, as Don loped toward them.

"Where is he?" were the first words out of his mouth, and Megan pointed across the hall to one of the rooms.

"In there," she said. "Alan's in there with him."

Don had barely paused, and he switched courses with a quick 'thanks,' crossed the hall, and pushed into the room.

"Excuse me," said an intern, stepping forward.

Alan spoke from the bedside. "It's okay, that's his brother." Alan rose with relief on his face as Don pushed past the intern, and gave him a quick hug. "Thank God, you're back."

Don could see the worry in his father's face, and stepped forward to get a look at Charlie.

"He's still out," said Alan unnecessarily. Don felt another pang at the sight of his brother, lying on the gurney in a hospital gown, eyes closed. An ice pack rested on one side of his head, pressing against the dark curls. "They took him for a CAT scan and an MRI. They haven't given us the results yet. When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago. Charlie was supposed to pick me up. When he didn't show, I caught a cab, and I stopped by his office. Lieutenant Walker filled me in."

Alan took in the furrowed brow. "What did he say?"

"He thinks whoever it was, was after a student who was in Charlie's office, and Charlie just got in the way. Actually, it sounded like Charlie put himself in the way – it looked like he tried to fight them."

"What happened to the student?"

"He was shot. He's dead."

Alan sat back down next to the bed on shaky legs, as the implication of that hit him. He stared at Charlie, his voice a little breathless. "My God, he could have been killed."

"Yeah," said Don quietly. They both stared at the still form for a moment. "I'm going back out to talk to Megan – I'll be back in as soon as they come back with the results. Call me in if he wakes up."

Alan nodded silently, his eyes still on Charlie, and Don pushed back out through the doors, and sat wearily on a sofa next to his team. The adrenaline generated by the shock of the situation was wearing off, and he felt suddenly a little weak in the knees. He looked at Megan. "Walker called you?"

"Yeah," she replied. "How did you know?"

"I stopped by Charlie's office on the way back from the airport. He was still at the scene." It felt odd to describe Charlie's office that way; and he paused for a moment.

David shook his head. "What happened?"

"They aren't real sure yet, but they think that someone was after a student who was in Charlie's office. The student was shot, dead when they got there. They think Charlie tried to fight them, and they knocked him out. Walker said the student had cocaine on him, and has priors for drugs."

Colby emitted a soft grunt. "Doesn't sound like your typical CalSci student."

"No," Don admitted.

Megan frowned. "Why would they try to deal with the student in Charlie's office? You'd think they would wait until he was alone somewhere."

Don shook his head, and David spoke up. "I don't know, I've seen weirder stuff than that when it comes drug dealers. And if they were inexperienced, who knows?"

Don nodded. "Yeah, it could have been kids – it sure doesn't seem like a professional job." He felt a chill run down his back, as he realized again that it could have been much worse. A professional probably would have taken Charlie out, too.

Megan watched the shadow pass over his face, and changed the subject. "So how was training?"

"Okay," said Don absently. "It was a demo for a new course – they wanted my input on it."

"Oh, yeah? On what?" she prompted.

"Applying Mathematical Principles to Advanced Field Investigative Techniques," he replied.

As he spoke, Megan caught sight of a familiar figure over his shoulder. Larry Fleinhardt had just stepped through the entrance, and was gazing about. "Excuse me," she said, rising.

She heard Colby's surprised response as she walked away. "I didn't know you and Charlie were working on that."

"Larry," she called out, and the rest of the conversation faded as she moved down the hall.

Don looked at Colby. "We weren't. I mean, Charlie wasn't. A guy from Princeton did it for us – Charlie knows him."

Colby frowned and exchanged a glance with David. "Why in the heck wouldn't they ask Charlie? I mean, I know they use math elsewhere at the Bureau, but he kind of pioneered a lot of techniques with us right here. He ought to get credit for that."

Don felt a pang of guilt. "I uh, think he was busy," he mumbled. "You know he's turned down the last couple of cases for us…" The truth was, the Bureau trainers had contacted Don and asked specifically for Charlie, and it was he who had told them Charlie was too busy. Don had assumed at the time that Charlie _was_ too busy, because he had just turned down a case. Deep inside, though, Don knew he should have asked him anyway, and he hadn't done it, purposely, out of irritation with his younger brother. He felt suddenly uncomfortable.

David spoke up. "So who did do it?"

Don shrugged, starting to feel a little impatient at the questioning. "Some guy named Marshall Penfield. He was out at CalSci a while back – helped us out a little on a case, maybe you remember him."

"Oh, boy," said Colby, shaking his head. "That's not gonna go over too well."

David looked at him. "Isn't that the math fight guy?"

Don frowned at them. His discomfort was growing, and it fed his irritation. "What math fight guy?"

Colby looked at him. "When we were working that case, David and I went to Charlie's office, and he and that Penfield guy were having an argument." He grinned at the recollection. "Actually it was pretty funny – David and I called it a math fight. I got the impression that they didn't like each other very much." His expression turned a little wistful. "I can't believe Charlie would turn that job down. I kinda thought that working with us meant a little more to him than that. I mean, we all sort of have a stake in that subject."

"Well, I was there, representing us," interjected Don lamely. He was beginning to realize that he might have screwed up. He thought of his brother, lying in the other room with a concussion, and suddenly felt like a traitor. He saw a doctor approaching, and rose as the man pushed through the doors into Charlie's room. "I'd better get in there," he said, grateful for chance to escape. He stepped quickly across the hall, with a nod at Larry, as the professor and Megan approached. They watched him go, and Larry ran an anxious hand through his hair.

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The doctor was facing Alan as Don walked in, and preparing to speak. He stopped himself, and Alan offered, "This is my son, Don, Charlie's brother."

The doctor held out a hand. "Dr. Pilton. We have the results – Dr. Eppes appears to have a moderate concussion. I would expect, based on the results, that he wouldn't be out much longer." As if to prove his point, Charlie stirred and moaned, and all three heads turned to look at him. His eyes remained closed, however, and the doctor continued. "We'll want to keep him overnight for observation. You can expect that he will have a monster of a headache, and probably some nausea when he wakes up. We're going to move him into a regular room."

Charlie groaned again, and his eyes flickered open. He winced, and made a face. Alan and Don were at his side in an instant, and the doctor moved around to the other side of the bed. He shined a penlight into Charlie's left eye, and Charlie batted it away, groggily. "Dr. Eppes, I just need to check your pupil reactions. Lie still please." Charlie turned bleary eyes on Alan and Don, then back at the doctor, succumbing to the quick exam.

"Head hurts," he mumbled, crossly.

"You have a concussion," replied the doctor. "Do you remember what happened?"

Charlie looked back at him with a confused expression, then at Don and Alan, as if he expected them to help. At their silence, he frowned. "No." It hurt to talk.

"What is the last thing you do remember?"

Charlie's brow furrowed in concentration. "I was in my office – some students came in, hoping I'd finished grading their finals..." He closed his eyes tightly, as a wave of pain swept through his head, and the room gave a sudden lurch. "Don' feel so good." He struggled suddenly, pushing over onto his side, and Don stepped forward to ease him back down.

"I wouldn't -," the doctor started to warn him, but it was too late. Charlie heaved, and sent a stream of bile over the side of the bed onto Don's shoes.

Don grimaced, and Alan looked down at the mess, as Charlie sank back onto the pillow with a groan.

"It could have been worse," said Alan. "It looks like he forgot to eat lunch again."

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End, Chapter 2


	3. It's Never Simple

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 3: It's Never Simple**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

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Megan perched on the edge of the couch at Casa Eppes, anxious to do something. Alan was in the kitchen fetching Charlie a light lunch of soup, and a ginger ale sparkled on the side table. It seemed her only remaining option was to visit with the patient. "Are you sure you're warm enough, Charlie? I could get you another blanket." She half-stood. "Or if you want to lie down for a while, I can move…."

Charlie chuckled softly, careful not to put too much force behind it and crack his head open. "Megan, I'm fine. I've been home for two days and Dad is hovering like a vulture. Don shows up at 5:01 p.m. and stays all evening – did after-hours crime take a holiday?"

She smiled and relaxed a little. "Not exactly. Don's not on call this week. He was off the roster while he was training at Quantico of course, and he asked Merrick to extend that another week."

Charlie raised his eyebrows, shocked. "What? Why would he do that?"

Megan shook her head. "You guys. I've never seen two brothers who care more about each other and are more afraid to admit it."

Charlie looked away, embarrassed. "He still hasn't told me about Quantico," he said, changing the direction of the conversation. "I keep falling asleep before I can ask. What sort of class was it?"

Megan frowned slightly. "Charlie, are you still having problems with your memory? You know, it's the one Marshall Penfield helped design. Don said you were too busy? Something about mathematical principles in field investigations. He'll be going over it in the staff meeting next week, so I'll learn more about it then."

Something flashed in Charlie's eyes and he leaned his head gently against the back of the couch. It was true that he still couldn't remember clearly what had happened in his office, but nothing else was missing. Charlie clearly remembered last year when the Bureau had asked him to develop such a course – it was a time when he truly had been too busy. But Penfield? He _never_ would have recommended Penfield; and, he knew that he was never approached about this latest class, either. But obviously, Don was. Don had chosen not to talk to him about this; not to ask for his participation or even his advice. A stab of pain mixed with jealousy pierced his heart, and he squeezed his eyes closed.

"Charlie?" Megan's voice was soft. "Is this becoming too much for you? I know you were out this morning at the doctor. You must be tired. Larry was planning on dropping by this afternoon, but I'll call him and tell him to wait."

Charlie forced his eyes open and his head off the back of the couch. "I'm fine," he said weakly, hating himself for wanting to cry.

He tried to smile, and was relieved beyond words when his father pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen. Alan smiled brightly. "Megan dear, I heated up a little bit of soup for you, too!"

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"You are an idiot. Did you think I wouldn't hear about this? I should make _you_ pay _me_."

MacPhee gritted his teeth and fairly spat into the phone. "My organization guarantees its work. We will find another way to plant the product. It will not be an issue for us to obtain more."

His employer was not mollified. He merely spat disdainfully back. "You had your chance. You will do this my way, now. I know just the opportunity. It's perfect."

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Larry viewed the repast in rapture. "Alan. You've gone to too much trouble again."

Alan smiled and reached for the mashed potatoes. "Nonsense, Larry. We were having the potatoes tonight anyway."

"Perhaps," Larry murmured, spooning cauliflower onto his plate. "But white meat chicken Alfredo, these lovely steamed florets and white chocolate sauce on blonde brownies?" He chuckled. "Don't think I haven't noticed your efforts to please my somewhat peculiar tastes."

Alan acquiesced and nodded. "Well, you're quite welcome, Larry. Charlie's been in such a sour mood all afternoon I was more than happy to spend it in the kitchen."

Charlie glared at his father and Don carefully regarded his plate. He couldn't agree more. He felt a little badly about it, but he was losing patience with his brother. Charlie had been alternately sulking and sniping all evening long, in a worse mood than usual. "Hmphf," he grunted. "Maybe you shouldn't go to the funeral tomorrow. People would understand. You're not up to it, yet."

Charlie's fork clattered on the table and he pushed back his chair. "I'm _fine_," he stated argumentatively, standing. "The doctor said I would be good to go to LACOST next week, as planned. If I can fly to Chile for a week-long conference, I can sure as hell go to a student's funeral, first."

All three of the other men at the table recognized the dangerous tone in Charlie's voice. It was not one they had heard often, but it was one not easily forgotten. Larry glanced nervously between Don and Alan, and then pushed bravely ahead. "How I wish I could attend the Latin American Conference on Systems Theory as well, Charles. Control theory is such as important area of applied mathematics. It connects two core mathematical areas, such as dynamic systems and geometry…. Well, it's exciting, that's all."

Don made a noise of derision. "I'll say. So why aren't you going, Larry?"

Larry completely missed the slight sarcasm and went on. "Sit down, Charles. To answer your question, Don, both Charles and Amita will go to represent CalSci. Millie cannot afford for more of us to be gone, I'm afraid. _Someone_ has to get Summer Session underway! I'm sure she would love to go herself. Although she seems happy enough that Charles was invited to participate in the forum to establish critical mass. Publicity, you know."

Alan's eyebrows knit in concern, and he decided to risk Charlie's further anger. "I don't know, son. I know the doctor said it was all right, but a flight to Santiago followed by another to…wherever…and _then_ a 2-hour bus ride?"

Don spoke on top of his father. "I don't know either, Charlie. It's a lot of pressure, a conference like this, isn't it? Can't you let Larry go in your place?"

Larry demurred. "Indeed I would enjoy the conference, Don, but applied mathematics is really Charles' field. He was…positively wooed."

"Well, what about this Penfield guy? Maybe he can do the forum thing. Or is he already going?"

Charlie had been rubbing his forehead, but now his hand dropped and he jerked his head around to fully face Don. His eyes shot fire and burned suspiciously bright. "Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you? You want to give Marshall everything that's mine! I _worked_ for it, dammit Don! Do you want to give him my brother, too, is that where it really stands?"

Don's mouth gaped in surprise. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Charlie stepped away from the table and turned to leave the dining room and head for the stairs. "I know about the class, Don. I know you wanted Marshall, and not me. I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you."

Larry and Alan had put down their own utensils and were observing the brothers' conversation as if at a tennis match. Don pushed back his own chair and stood. His barely-suppressed frustration bubbled over into defensive anger. "Don't be an ass, Charlie," he called after his brother. "That's not what happened!"

Charlie swung around, his eyes blazing. "Do you realize that I've spend more hours working with the FBI on mathematical solutions than I have on Cognitive Emergence, or even the Eppes Convergence? Certainly more than any other mathematician – did you stop to think that maybe this was something that I cared about, that I would want to be involved in?"

Don groaned in exasperation, and pushed back his chair. "Goddamn it, Charlie…"

Charlie turned back around, heading for the stairs, and his shoulders were hunched so that they nearly touched his ears. "Leave me alone!" he shouted. "Just leave me the hell alone!"

Alan made a noise of distress and Don's already simmering blood reached the boiling point. He threw his napkin onto the table and started off in pursuit of Charlie. "Listen you little twerp! I'm sorry you had such a horrible experience, but _**I WILL NOT**_ be the bad guy here! You turned the Bureau down when they asked about this just last year! _They_ went after Penfield – I wasn't asked my opinion as to who was the best second choice!" Once Don got going, he almost managed to forget the truth himself. But in the end, when Charlie hesitated and turned his head to look at him…. When Don saw the shimmering tears in Charlie's eyes, he remembered the conversation with Quantico, and it was like a knife twisting in his gut. _"No, I'm sure he wouldn't be interested,"_ he had said. He had shut them down before he had bothered to talk to his brother, not even sure at the time why he did it. Now, he was afraid that old jealousies had spoken for them both. He was afraid that he was becoming resentful of Charlie's growing influence on his turf. Watching a single tear fall before Charlie turned again and continued up the stairs, Don was truly afraid. He was afraid that he had broken something precious, and irreparable.

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End, Chapter 3


	4. More Than Meets the Eye

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 4: More Than Meets the Eye**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

Charlie waited for the back door to shut, and headed for the phone. His father had gone out to meet someone for lunch; it was the first time he had been alone since he came home from the hospital. He moved gingerly; his head was still throbbing, although it was more from congestion than the injury, this morning. Much to his dismay, after escaping upstairs the night before, the tears of frustration and hurt had come in earnest, and he had woken up to swollen eyes, and sinuses to match. He hated himself for crying – he hated even more that a tear had escaped when Don could see it. It was humiliating; grown men didn't cry, and to do it in front of his tough FBI brother was too embarrassing to stand.

He dialed; he had looked up the phone number last night, and it was seared in his eidetic memory. A pleasant female voice answered, and Charlie spoke, his voice a little hoarse. "This is Charles Eppes. Grant Jeffers, please." She obligingly put him through, and he cleared his throat.

"Professor Eppes, what can I do for you?" Jeffers' voice was cheerful, a little surprised.

"Grant, hello. I wanted to ask you a question or two about the mathematics course you're coordinating."

" Applying Mathematical Principles to Advanced Field Investigative Techniques?"

"That's the one."

"Sure, go ahead."

Charlie paused, feeling a little foolish. "Well, uh, I guess what I wanted to know was, how you picked your course developer." No sense beating around the bush. "Bottom line is – is there a reason you didn't ask me?"

Grant sounded surprised. "We did ask you. Well, not directly, but I talked to your brother. He told us you were too busy."

Charlie sat there, stunned. Don had gone around his back, on top of which he had lied to him about it. He couldn't find words for a moment, and Jeffers went on.

"Yeah, it was about four months ago, and actually, I was pretty disappointed. I mean, the whole reason we wanted to develop the course was because of the work you guys have been doing in L.A. When you couldn't do it, we threw it out for the mathematical community, and Penfield put in for it. Frankly, the only reason we picked him was because he had a history of working with you on a previous case."

Charlie found his voice, barely. "I see. Well, I guess there must have been some miscommunication between Don and I. I was pretty busy at the time, but I'm sure I would have found time for this somehow."

Jeffers' tone turned conspiratorial. "Well, now that I know you're interested, I'm gonna get back to you. The first demo course got pretty good reviews, but I think it was because your brother was there. None of the FBI people who attended it with him wanted to criticize it, for his sake, and actually, he made it a little more interesting, because he presented a few of the actual cases. We've run it a couple more times in the last few days, and to be honest with you, without your brother there, it's a dog. The agents are bored out of their skulls, then the mathematicians asked a few questions on the math you used in some of your cases, and Penfield had a hard time explaining it to some of them. He got the math, but he couldn't always explain why you picked the application you did for the situation. That completely put off the math guys. I was just going to live with it for the next few months and then discontinue it, but if you're interested, we can retool it."

"Yeah," said Charlie, his voice expressionless. "I'm interested. Let me know when you're ready."

Jeffers' voice held a tinge of excitement. "I can't tell you what a relief this is. I really wanted this to work – too bad we didn't get you the first time around."

"Yeah," echoed Charlie dully. "Too bad. Thanks, Grant."

"No, thank _you_."

The phone clicked, and Charlie stared at the receiver for a moment before he finally set it down. All of the hours of work he had put in all of those cases, and his brother had been happy to cut him out of this, without even asking him. He had to concede, four months ago, he _had_ been busy – he had even turned down some of Don's cases. It was understandable, to some degree, why Don would have said he was tied up. But to not even ask him first…All of that work, all of that time, and he had gotten no recognition for it. And deep down, he knew that it wasn't the FBI recognition that he craved - it was his brother's. The work had allowed him to spend time with Don – and it seemed that Don couldn't care less. As far as their relationship went, the last three years had apparently been a sickening waste of time.

He let out a soft snort of derision. What a patsy he was, bumbling along like an eager puppy; taking the slightest praise or sign of approval from Don as evidence that they were getting closer. It was painfully evident now that his brother had been using him, and he had been too blind, too naïve to see it. He rose; his lips in a tight line, anger overcoming the hurt and disappointment. Not anymore, he vowed to himself, grimly. Not anymore.

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Marshall Penfield stepped outside and looked around the Quantico campus a little nervously, making sure that no one was near enough to hear the conversation. The slightly accented voice on his cell phone was smooth as silk, but there was no mistaking the threatening undertone.

"When are you delivering our request?"

Penfield spoke, quietly. "There was a delay. The plan was flawed anyway – it would have been too difficult to get the commodity out of the country. I have another plan that will deliver your request nearly to your doorstep – but it is conditional on whether or not you have access to Santiago prisons."

The voice on the other end sounded confident. "That will not be a problem. I ask again – when?"

"Next week. You can expect the commodity to be seized at the Santiago airport."

"You are sure that this plan will not fail, as your last one did?"

Marshall gritted his teeth. It galled him to admit that Eppes could do anything better than he could. "This one will not fail. I'm sure of it."

"Good." The phone clicked, and Penfield shut his and glanced around. No matter. Eppes would be out of his life in a week or so, his reputation in ruins. And Penfield would be there to take the lead as one of the country's premier mathematicians; in fact, the process had begun. He had already stepped into Eppes' role as the math authority at the FBI. He straightened, and with a smug smile, headed off to teach his last class of the day.

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Don caught a glimpse of his father as he stepped off the elevator, bearing a bag of takeout, and continued his discussion with the agent in front of him. Ordinarily a quick lunch with his father would have been a welcome break; Alan always brought great food and comfortable conversation. Today though, he caught the grim smile on his father's face, and his heart sank. Lecture time. And the worst part of it was; he was sure he deserved it.

He had stormed out angrily the night before, not even staying to finish dinner, which was rude in itself. Back at his apartment, over more than one shot of whiskey, his anger had slowly subsided to a simmer, submerged in a rising morass of guilt. He had the awful feeling that his attempt to jab Charlie had turned into something more along the lines of a stabbing.

The agent stepped away after his instructions, and Don reluctantly turned to face his father, who walked forward. Alan's voice was deceptively cheerful. "Donny! Care for some lunch?"

"Sure," mumbled Don. "Let's go in here." He indicated a nearby conference room, and shuffled in after his father.

They sat, and Alan began pulling Styrofoam containers out of the bag. The food smelled great, but it was the last thing Don was interested in at the moment. His stomach churned with guilt, hangover, and too much coffee. He took a halfhearted bite of a warm loaded sub dripping with cheese.

Alan took a healthy bite of his own. "Mmm – these things are pretty good." He eyed Don, his expression mild, but his eyes sharp. "I figured you'd be hungry – you didn't get to eat much of your dinner last night."

Don shrugged and looked away, and Alan studied him. His son looked rebellious and miserable at the same time. "So what's the deal with this class?"

Don groaned inwardly. He'd known it was coming. "It's a class to be taught at Quantico – on techniques for applying math to cases."

Alan raised his eyebrows, chewed, and swallowed. "Just the kind of thing Charlie does for you. So why didn't they want Charlie to do it?"

Don suspected his father already knew the answer to that question, after hearing the argument last night, but he replied anyway. "They did. They called me a few months ago about it. I had just asked Charlie to work on some cases and he turned them down, so I told them he was too busy."

"And you didn't ask him first. Why not?"

Don let his sandwich drop with a plunk, looking a little irritated. "I admit; I was kind of pissed at him for not taking the cases. I thought it would serve him right. I was just trying to irritate him; I didn't think he would take it that hard."

"And why on earth not?"

"Dad, he gets recognition all the time for the work he does. Plus he turned down those cases." He looked down at his sandwich, dolefully. "I just didn't think it meant that much to him."

Alan sighed. "Don, look at all of the time he's put in on this over the last few years. You don't think he'd want at least a little credit for it? Besides, it wasn't FBI recognition he was looking for, at least that wasn't all of it."

Don scowled. He felt like a heel, and it wasn't improving his mood. "What do you mean?"

"Donny, Charlie obviously cares about the outcome of the cases he works on, but he doesn't take them on for the joy of the work alone – if that were the case, he'd have made this his life's work. There is another, bigger reason he does it – you can't tell me you haven't recognized it. He does it to spend time with you. After all these years, he's still trying to gain your approval."

Don shook his head, and stared at his sandwich.

"Don't shake your head," chided Alan a little angrily. "We've talked about this before – you know it's true. What I don't think you realize is the degree of emotional investment he has in this. Maybe it's time you start to admit that. This was not just about FBI recognition – to him this was a personal rejection by you." He stood and wrapped up the rest of the sandwich and stuffed it into the bag, a bit emphatically, then turned for the door. "I suggest you figure out how to correct this."

Don stared after his father's retreating figure, morosely. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he had screwed up, royally. The jab was definitely more of a stabbing. Hell, the more he thought about it; it was taking on the dimensions of an axe murder. The only problem was; he had no idea of how to fix it.

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Don watched the slight figure from across the cemetery plot. Charlie was wearing a dark suit, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. The wind blew his curls around a jaw that was tightly set. Amita and Larry had drifted away slightly to speak to someone as the casket was being removed from the hearse, and Charlie had a little space around him. Don seized the opportunity and walked over; face expressionless, except for eyes filled with remorse behind his own sunglasses.

Charlie saw him coming, and stiffened, but continued staring straight ahead at the hole in the earth.

Don stopped next to him. "Charlie," he began, softly.

Charlie's spoke through clenched teeth, sotto voce. "I told you to stay the hell away from me."

"Charlie, look," Don said in a tone of mingled despair and frustration.

"No, _you_ look," hissed Charlie. "I know what happened – I talked to Grant Jeffers this morning. You cut me out of the course, and on top of that you lied to me."

Don's heart plummeted, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Charlie held up a hand, and continued the whispered tirade. "Save it. I have nothing to say to you - nothing. I can understand that you'll want to visit Dad, just kindly do it when I'm not there. I'll be gone all of next week at the conference, you can knock yourself out." He turned on his heel, and headed toward Millie, Amita, and Larry, his tense figure radiating fury.

Don watched him go, his shoulders slumped. This was worse, far worse than he realized. Getting his brother's trust back was going to be difficult, if not impossible. Sighing, he walked back to the other side of the gravesite. As he did, his eyes fell on Gary Walker, and for lack of anyone else to stand with, he walked over to the lieutenant's side.

They contemplated the excavation in silence for a moment. The pallbearers were moving forward with the casket. Don spoke softly. "How are you guys doing on this one?"

Walker snorted. "We're not. We've got nothing, except a bunch of stuff that doesn't add up."

Don looked at him. "Like what?"

"Well, the kid did have a rap sheet for drugs, but apparently it was old info. He's been clean for years – started turning himself around in high school, worked his way into CalSci - no sign he's been involved at all in drugs lately. Even his bust in high school wasn't for dealing – it was marijuana possession. The coke in his book bag just doesn't fit."

"Maybe he just got back into it recently."

"Maybe," said Walker doubtfully, "but then there's the bag itself. No fingerprints."

Don frowned. "_No_ fingerprints?"

"Yeah. It was a gallon-size Ziploc bag with smaller baggies inside, packaged for dealing. No fingerprints on any of them. The kid's prints should have been all over them."

Don shrugged. "He must have used gloves."

Walker shook his head. "Even if he wore them to package it, the outer bag should have had some fingerprints. I can't see anyone walking around in this weather wearing gloves – and especially not a dealer – it would cause unwanted attention. When he made a sale, he would have to handle the outside bag. It doesn't make sense. _Somebody's_ fingerprints ought to be on that bag. The question is; whose?"

"Whose?"

Walker looked at him. "Maybe it was a plant. Maybe the kid's enemies were trying to discredit him. It was a lot of coke – way more than a two-bit campus dealer would normally walk around with. It seems like overkill. But if they were going to kill him anyway, why did they bother?"

Don stared at him, and then looked back at the gravesite, his mind spinning. Walker was right – it didn't make sense. There was obviously more to this than met the eye. His gaze fell on his brother. There was still no reason to believe that any of it involved Charlie, but the disparities settled like a burr in the back of his brain, and generated a vague sense of uneasiness that crept down his spine like a chill, in spite of the afternoon sunlight.

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End, Chapter 4


	5. Turbulence

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 5: Turbulence**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

The layover in Atlanta had been mercifully brief, for which Amita was increasingly grateful. Still, a 17-hour travel experience with a sulking clam was not exactly what she had envisioned.

During the first half of the trip, she had been sympathetic and understanding. After all, Charlie had experienced that horrible attack in his office just 10 days before. It was understandable that he might not be exactly chipper, yet. He had slept a great deal of the morning away, and she had actually grown concerned. Perhaps Alan and Don had been right, and it was too soon for a trip this arduous.

Their 2+ hours in Atlanta had been largely silent, and now, four more hours into the second leg of their flight, Charlie was staring glumly and blindly out the window. He was acting more like he'd lost his best friend than like a man traveling with his lover to an exotic and stimulating locale. It was starting to piss Amita off. The idea of spending a week with Charlie was beginning to feel like a chore, and she was rapidly losing her enthusiasm for the conference. Her thoughts were dark, and brooding...so all-encompassing that she started in fright when he suddenly spoke into her ear. "I'm thinking of cutting back on the whole consulting thing," he said. "I should concentrate more on cognitive emergence."

Amita turned her head toward him, but he was facing the window again. "All your consulting?" she asked, confused. Charlie had consulted for a myriad of agencies as long as she had known him - the NSA, Coast Guard, CDC, FBI, DEA, private concerns. She was pretty sure he didn't do it for the money, but for the satisfaction he felt after successfully applying mathematical principles in non-traditional roles. Consulting gigs provided endless material for his own research as well -- not to mention his classes. Even Millie was beginning to appreciate that Charlie's consulting could be a two-way street, offering benefits as well as demanding time.

Charlie shifted slightly and faced the back of the seat in front of him, his face grim. "Most of it," he acknowledged. "I don't know how I got in so deeply in the first place. I'm a researcher and a teacher, a scientist. This crap is just holding me back."

Amita was shocked. Was this what he had been brooding about all day? If so, the decision obviously weighed heavily upon him. She lightly touched his arm and decided maybe it was a moment that called for supportive girlfriend, rather than interested colleague. "I guess I can understand that," she soothed. She tried to encourage him. "You don't have to give it all up -- if you cut back everywhere else, you'll still have time to work with the FBI and Don."

Charlie jerked his arm away and crossed it with his other one over his chest. "The FBI is the _first_ to go," he fumed loudly. "Don doesn't want me there anyway. He's made it apparent that I'm just shoving my nose into his damn business!"

Amita shook her head slightly and began to wring her hands. Shit, this 'should-I-be-the-girlfriend, or should-I-be-Dr.-Ramanujan' stuff was hard. She got it wrong half the time. "I'm...not sure I understand," she finally admitted in a low voice.

Charlie raised his another notch, and heads began to turn their way. "I just don't want to consult. What's so difficult to understand about that? CAN I JUST NOT CONSULT?"

Amita winced and blushed, and unbuckled her seatbelt, fumbling a little with the catch. "Of course," she mumbled, pushing herself up. "Excuse me. I think I need to walk around the cabin and stretch my legs." She was off before she was finished speaking. Charlie sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. Great. Now Don was ruining what should have been a romantic week with his girl. He opened his eyes, sighed again and clutched at his own seat belt. Might as well go up to the first class excess storage area and claim his briefcase. He felt a spear of anger again that the flight attendant had insisted he store it there in the first place. He had always been allowed under-seat storage in the past, even when the nearby overhead compartments were full. Just his luck to land on a transcontinental flight with some by-the-book newbie.

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Elena Martinez found the pre-packaged dinner meal with the tiny red dot in the upper left corner, and felt her heart rate increase. No matter how many times she did this sort of thing, she never got used to it. She and the rest of the flight crew were subject to as many security checks as the passengers, these days, and she often wondered how the cartel managed to infiltrate the system. Sometimes the product was disguised as a meal, as it was on this flight. Once, she had found it in an oxygen canister loaded onboard for an elderly traveler. Another time, it was in the bottom of a tin of coffee.

She casually drew the galley curtain, smiling at Stefan as he passed to answer a light, and positioned herself to open the product. This was the last time. Even her contact agreed that she would become suspect if she worked many more flights that resulted in a coke bust. She was worried about pushing it another time, but he had promised. Once more, he taunted, or the cartel would send operatives after Marco. When she returned from this flight, and she and her lover were back together – in just a few days, they swore – the two of them would disappear in the Andes together, and never be heard from again.

She wondered almost idly what the curly-headed young man had done to get on their wrong side. The manifest listed him as a doctor. Perhaps he had let someone die. Too bad – he seemed nice enough, if a little morose and quiet. That must be it; he had let someone die, and now he felt badly about it. Poor Dr. Eppes. He had no idea how badly he was about to feel.

She divided the product – the small packet went in her pocket, and the larger one she hid in the middle of a folded blanket. Then she drew back the curtain, and carried the blanket toward the good doctor's briefcase.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A flight attendant had his briefcase in hand, Charlie could see as he squeezed his way through the aisle between the seats. "Excuse me," he called softly. "I was just coming to get that. Is there a problem?"

She whirled, dropping the case as one hand crept to her throat. "Ay!" she yelped in a decidedly-Hispanic accent. Recovering quickly, she smiled as she dipped in retrieval mode. "Ah, señor, you frightened me. Por favor, accept my apologies. There are many carry-ons today; I was simply rearranging the closet in a safer manner." She thrust Charlie's briefcase toward him. "I hope I did not cause harm?"

Charlie took the handle and offered a tight smile of reassurance, happy to think of his laptop in its protective cover inside the briefcase. "I'm sure everything is fine," he said. "There's plenty of room for this in under-seat storage, if that will help."

She frowned. There were still several hours in the flight, and Elena didn't really want the young doctor searching through his briefcase and finding the product too soon. "If computer, you know cannot use during flight, yes?"

Charlie sighed, clutching the case to his chest protectively. "I won't. I have papers…." He stopped, disgruntled. He had been about to say "papers to grade", but he didn't want to do that without the laptop powered up, so he could make notes in the student files as he usually did. Had he remembered to pack a book in there, at least? "I might read," he finished lamely.

She smiled again, dimples reminding him of Amita and making him feel even worse. "Ah, señor, I have good book. It ees bestseller in Chile, an excellent novel, written in English. I bring to you, yes?"

He clutched the briefcase a little tighter. He could go over his notes for the forum…if they weren't on the damn laptop. His life was thoroughly dependent upon electronic gadgets, it seemed. "I don't know," he hedged.

The flight attendant reached toward the briefcase again, turning up the wattage on her smile. "Si, señor, I promise you will enjoy. I regret that we cannot allow under-seat storage. If you do not need case, I will return it for you? I bring book and another glass of wine to you. Perhaps something for la señorita bonita, yes?"

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Elena proved a most attentive flight attendant during the remainder of the journey to Santiago. It was easy to ensure that the morose doctor and his silent companion were just a bit tipsy by the time beverage service was suspended in preparation for landing. Elena had learned that drug busts carried an extra notch of believability when the runner had product in his system, and according to orders, she had used the tiny packet sent for that purpose to lace their last drinks. Neither of them remarked on the slightly bitter taste the wine had taken on, and she knew it was because their taste buds had long since checked out for the day.

It was not as if Elena had not done this before.

Still, such a strong and immediate reaction was unprecedented, and she was ill prepared for the young woman to unbuckle her seat belt mid-descent and stagger to her feet. As the doctor's companion began to wave her arms and exclaim in a loud and excited voice, demanding that he get up and join her in the "march of the colors", Elena hurriedly disengaged herself from the flight attendant's jump seat and scurried up against the G-forces until she could reach her. The young man was grabbing at the woman with one hand, working on his own seat belt with the other. "Amita!" he implored, voice frightened and slightly slurred. "We're landing! Baby, pleassh…"

Elena and Stefan, who had joined her, could not control the situation. Other attendants informed the captain, who leveled out the aircraft. He was going to circle again, before final approach. By now the doctor was unbelted and standing as well, and the other passengers were becoming upset. Elena worked hard to gain the upper hand, her own heart pounding as she wondered what had gone so horribly wrong, this time. An air marshal appeared from the back of the aircraft, ready to restrain both of them. The woman continued to scream and rant about everything from "killer marshmallows" to "the dynamic systems of control theory," and the curly-haired doctor was pushing against the marshal, swaying into his chest, trying to reach around him to his "Amita."

Elena gasped as one of the woman's flailing arms connected with her cheek. She quickly followed that with a grunt, as she was knocked to the floor by the sudden dead weight of the slightly larger woman's body. Other passengers helped extricate her from the bottom of the pile, and as she sat up yet another exclamation of horror escaped her. The _muy bonita_, dark-haired beauty was seizing violently in the tight space between seats, arms and legs and head slamming into the metal that surrounded her. Already the woman's face was blue, and Elena knew that she was not breathing.

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End, Chapter 5


	6. Don't Let Them Know You're Afraid

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 6: ****Don't Let Them Know You're Afraid**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Charlie pushed against the marshal once more; then stopped suddenly, frozen in horror as Amita dropped to the ground and began seizing. It took a second or two for his brain to grasp what was happening; it didn't seem to be working right. His mind was fuddled with the familiar effects of too much alcohol, but there was something else – his thoughts were frantic, disjointed, and he couldn't seem to organize them enough to control his actions. He felt odd, his heart was racing, and his blood felt like it was vibrating through his veins, creating a disturbing buzzing sensation. In addition to of all of that, he felt a stab of terror, and a resulting rush of the natural chemical adrenaline, as he recognized that something was horribly wrong with Amita.

He pushed against the marshal, dimly aware that he was shouting her name, and as the plane touched down, the jolt from contact sent them flying backwards into the seats. Charlie ended up with the center armrest in his back, and the marshal, who was no lightweight, on top of him, but he barely noticed the pain; he was struggling mightily to get out from under the load, to get to Amita. The marshal was shouting at him, but his words didn't register until the man, by now fed up, grabbed Charlie's arms and shook him. His head hit the armrest near the windows with a sharp thunk, and for a moment he saw nothing but stars.

As Charlie's vision cleared, his hearing seemed to come with it, and the marshal, sensing the struggle was over, pulled him to his feet and Charlie staggered, but remained upright. The plane doors were opened quickly; and the rest of the passengers were held back as a gurney was pulled onto the plane. Amita was still jerking spasmodically, her eyes vacant and staring, as they lifted her onto the gurney, and Charlie moved toward it, weaving, his eyes riveted on her. A hand pulled on his shoulder and turned him partially around, and his bag was thrust into his arms; he took it almost absently, and stumbled after the gurney as it was wheeled off the plane. He must have found his voice again; he could hear it calling her name. At least he thought it was his, it was so broken, so full of despair, that it didn't sound quite familiar.

The marshal kept one firm hand on the young man's arm, and cast a suspicious glance at his face. He certainly seemed drunk, but there was something more – a manic hint to his eyes, the dilated pupils, that indicted that there was something else in his system. As they came off the ramp into the terminal, his suspicion was confirmed. Three Santiago police officers were standing nearby with a German shepherd, and the dog reacted immediately, surging toward Charlie on his leash, barking and snapping. The officer holding him kept a grip, but allowed the dog to move forward so it could indicate what exactly it had located.

He stopped it just short of Charlie, and the dog jumped at the briefcase. Charlie ignored it, moving along with the gurney, until one of the officers stepped in front of him. The marshal, at a nod from the officer, released his grip on Charlie's arm. Charlie tried to step around the officer, his eyes still on Amita. "I'm with her, I need to go with her," he said, and ignored the officer's instructions to halt. Hands grasped his arms, and he struggled against them, his words slightly slurred, "No, you don't understand, she's sick – she's not from here – I need to go with her!"

"Please wait," said an accented voice, and Charlie looked up into the steely eyes of the police officer, as his bag was pulled from his arms. The man rummaged through the bag, then grunted, and gave a nod to the other officer, who grabbed Charlie's arm, and began steering him forward. The marshal stepped back and let them go – they would contact him later for a statement, but his part in this was over.

Charlie tried to pull away from the officer, toward Amita, whose gurney was several yards ahead of them and moving fast. The man holding his bag grabbed his other arm. "Why – what – I can't," he began to protest, as they muscled him down the concourse. He kept twisting his head, trying to follow the progress of Amita's gurney, until they turned into a side hallway.

Strong arms propelled Charlie down the corridor, so quickly he could scarcely keep his feet. He was still protesting, but his objections fell on deaf ears. His heart was thumping in terror, visions of Amita's sudden attack playing in this mind. He could still see her jerking convulsively on the airplane floor, and his stomach churned with nausea.

The officers opened a door, pushed him into a room, and they stopped, Charlie panting from the exertion. He stood swaying a little, facing a man seated at a table, a Santiago police lieutenant from the looks of his badge, and obviously someone with authority. The man had dark hair, and an expression to match. One of the officers plunked down Charlie's bag in front of him, just as Charlie spoke, breathlessly. "I don't know what's going on here, but I need be with my friend."

The lieutenant's eyes rested on him emotionlessly, as one of the men unzipped the bag, fumbling through it, and pulled out a packet. He dropped it with a flourish on the table, and spoke in Spanish. "_The dog led us to it."_ Charlie stared at it stupidly.

The lieutenant slit the packet with a knife, revealing white powder. He touched a finger to it, and then delicately touched the finger to the tip of his tongue, then spat into a tissue. "Cocaine." The word was spoken with a complete lack of expression.

Charlie's jaw dropped. "It's not mine," he protested.

The lieutenant looked at him, taking in his unsteadiness, the dilated pupils. He indicated Charlie's bag, and spoke in accented English. "This is not yours?"

"The bag is mine," conceded Charlie, trying mightily to keep frustration out of his voice, wishing the odd buzzing sensation would go away. "The packet is not – someone must have planted it there."

"Hmpf," the lieutenant rose, and began a recitation that he had obviously given before. "You will be taken to a prison in Santiago. Once there, you will be allowed one phone call. You will be further advised of your rights when you arrive." He nodded at the officers, who grabbed Charlie's wrists, cuffing his hands in front of him.

Charlie stared at him in disbelief. Words tumbled out in a torrent, driven by panic. "You can't do this – this is a mistake! I need to be with my friend right now!" The lieutenant waved a hand in dismissal, not even bothering to reply, and the men pushed Charlie toward the door, as he looked wildly back and forth between them and the lieutenant. "You can't be serious – this was a set-up…" The rest of his frantic words were lost as the door closed.

The lieutenant spoke to the remaining officer in Spanish. "That is what they all say. Take this to headquarters, and have it entered into evidence._" _The officer nodded, and the lieutenant sat down at his table again, to begin filling out a report. '_Arrogant Americanos_,' he thought, with disgust. '_They think the law does not apply to them._

The prison was a huge, dingy building surrounded by high, dirty walls. The squad car received clearance from the guard at the gate and pulled into driveway in front of a main entrance. More guards waited there, and opened the car door. Charlie began to step out and was yanked roughly to his feet, and pushed up the steps and into a hallway. His passport was given to a clerk behind a window, and he was forced down the hallway and into a room. Two guards stood there, faces impassive, and one said something in Spanish. Charlie stared at him blankly, and the man repeated himself in accented English. "Hold up your hands."

Charlie held his hands in front of him and the man deftly released the handcuffs, palming them with a quick motion. "Take off your clothes."

Charlie looked at him, desperate, a little shocked, and then at the other guard, who was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "I'm supposed to get a phone call."

"You will," said the guard brusquely. "First you must be processed."

Charlie stared at them, wanting to protest; then realized he had no choice. He stripped, enduring the humiliating body cavity search, which seemed rougher than it needed to be. When they were finished, one of the guards tossed him a faded mustard-colored jumpsuit, and battered slip-on shoes. The fabric was coarse against his skin, and the garment was much too big. He rolled up the legs and the sleeves, his hands shaking, and the handcuffs were reapplied. Another man with a medical bag stepped into the room, and handed Charlie a plastic cup. He nodded toward a door at the end of the room, and spoke in Spanish.

The guard translated. "He needs a sample. That is the washroom."

Charlie stared at them dejectedly for a moment; then turned, his shoulders slumped; awkwardly trying to manage the cup and the door handle with cuffed wrists. When he returned, minutes later, the doctor had pulled a chair next to a table, and indicated that he sit. He produced a syringe, and took a blood sample from Charlie's arm. When he was finished, Charlie stood, and the guards opened the door, and held it for him.

They went down one corridor, then another, and finally into another room. This one looked more like an office; there was a man seated behind the desk.

Captain Fernandez eyed the slight man in front of him. The young man's face was full of misery; he didn't look like the typical hard-bitten drug dealer, although there was enough cocaine in the packet to qualify under the law as sufficient for dealing. Fernandez spoke; his English was good and he was proud of it. "You are being charged with possession of cocaine in an amount large enough for dealing, and with bringing said cocaine over international borders. You do have a right to an attorney. Do you wish to plead?"

Charlie stood, his tongue tied for a moment. This could not be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any minute now, he would find out that he had simply fallen asleep on the plane. Somehow, he forced his shell-shocked mind into action. "I would like to call the U.S. Embassy," he managed.

The phone call alleviated his fears, but only slightly. He had spoken to an embassy representative named Joe Tolliver, who seemed genuinely concerned. He listened to Charlie's story, took his request that he call his father, and assured Charlie that he would find legal representation for him. He also agreed to find out where they had taken Amita, and to check her status. Charlie dragged out the conversation as long as possible, clinging to the voice on the other end like a life preserver; but finally, they told him his time was up.

They led him down several corridors and through a security area into the prison itself. Three stories of cells loomed over him, the inmates peering between the bars, viewing the new arrival with curiosity and jeering. Most of it was in Spanish, and that was probably good, Charlie thought; he was fairly certain that he didn't want to understand the comments and curses that were being flung at him. Although his heart was still racing, the buzzing sensation was starting to subside at little, the flush from the wine was long gone, and he was starting to feel a deep sense of fear take hold in the back of his brain.

It didn't improve when they turned down a side row, into a group of more secluded cells, and stopped in front of one of them. The cells were good-sized, with several bunks, designed to house eight men. This cell was nearly full – there were seven men in it; and none of them wore a welcoming smile. No, strike that; three of them did; but their expression was more of a sneer. Charlie swallowed hard as a guard removed his handcuffs, and another opened the door. He hesitated. Maybe he should have asked for a cell of his own, he thought, but the idea vanished as he was pushed roughly from behind, and door clanged shut behind him.

'_You can't show fear,_' he told himself. '_Act tough, act like this is nothing_.' He turned away from the men toward the bars, more to hide the expression on his face than anything, and felt a momentary surge of panic as the guards walked away. There was a voice behind him; Spanish poured out, and even though he couldn't understand it, he picked up the sharpness, the mockery in the man's tone. He turned and held up his hands apologetically. 'No habla Español,' he tried.

He looked around at the faces. Two of the men lounged in a lower bunk, but the rest were standing, watching him with speculation. All of them had knowing, derisive expressions on their faces. One of the two men in the bunks seemed oblivious to what was going on in the cell, but the other rose lazily, and sauntered forward, stopping directly in front of Charlie, so close that he had to fight the urge to step backward. The man threw something in Spanish over his shoulder, and the rest of them laughed, harshly.

One of them spoke to Charlie in somewhat broken, heavily accented English. "I am Carlos." He indicated the man in front of Charlie with a nod of his head. "That is El Lobo. He is in charge of this block. It would do well if you would mind what he says. The last man who did not, well," he broke off, shrugged, and grinned evilly at the others, "That is why there are eight beds, but only seven of us here."

Charlie stared at him, and then back at El Lobo. He had to look up at him, the man was several inches taller than he was, and was standing so close their chests were nearly touching. El Lobo was smiling, his black eyes bright with cruelty, and they roved over Charlie, as if he was a piece of merchandise in a supermarket. He smirked, and suddenly raised his hand and slapped Charlie lightly on the cheek, twice, before Charlie jerked his head away. El Lobo turned and made his way slowly, insolently, back to his bunk, tossing out something in Spanish that made the others laugh again.

Carlos pointed to a bottom bunk at the end of the cell. "That one is yours. You will stay in it unless El Lobo says you can come out."

Charlie could feel panic rising in his chest, and he turned without question and made for the bunk. '_Can't let them see how afraid you are_.' He lay down curled on his side, his face toward the wall, and tried to fight off the tears that threatened, stinging his eyes, like the visions of Amita that stung his heart.

End, Chapter 6


	7. It Just Gets Better and Better

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 7: It Just Gets Better and Better**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

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Two hours passed, and Charlie still laid facing at the wall, eyes wide and staring. He'd had some time to collect his scrambled thoughts, some of the odd sensations were subsiding, and he had come to the realization that not all of them were from panic and alcohol – he'd been drugged, he was sure of it. Someone had planted cocaine in his computer case, and had drugged both him and Amita. The question was who – and why? He couldn't begin to fathom who might have done this, and had spent two fruitless hours staring at the block wall thinking about it, trying to ignore the smear of brown on the paint that looked like dried blood.

The "what ifs" assailed him, rising like specters in his mind. What if they couldn't clear him of this? Even if they did, what if he was killed in this prison before they could get him out? And worst of all, what if Amita didn't make it? He knew it was no use to dwell on those thoughts, and he tried to push them down, but they kept popping back in his head, and every time they did, his heart gave a painful lurch.

The wine had run its course through his system, and his bladder was beginning to answer with pain of its own. He knew the man had told him to stay in his bunk, but surely, they would allow a bathroom break. He turned onto his back, and quietly surveyed the group in the cell. Three of them were perched on a top bunk, playing cards, and two others sat on a lower bunk near El Lobo; the three of them were smoking. The seventh man still lay in his lower bunk, ignoring them all. Charlie's peripheral vision picked up movement – it was a guard, strolling through the corridor outside the cell. Now was his chance. They wouldn't try anything with the guard there.

He rolled out of the bunk, his head down, avoiding their eyes, headed for the single toilet on the other side of the cell. It was grimy and rust-stained, it stank of urine, and his face twisted slightly in disgust as he relieved himself. He flushed the toilet and buttoned the front of his jumpsuit, and turned and headed back to his bunk, head down. He kept his eyes off the men, so he was completely surprised as he passed the first bunk, and hands grabbed him, slamming him into the cell bars. His head hit the bars with a painful crack, his heart hit the back of his throat, and he stared back at his assailant with fear and surprise.

The man who had grabbed him held him pinned against the bars, and two others stood behind him, one of them Carlos. Their expressions were threatening, and Charlie twisted his head a little, looking for the guard. To his shock and dismay, the guard was still there, but was making no move to help him. He was a big man, with cruel heavy-lidded eyes, and was so close that Charlie could see his nametag – Montero. Carlos spoke, and Charlie's head whipped back around.

"You did not hear the instruction? You stay in your bunk unless El Lobo says that you may leave."

Charlie glanced a little fearfully toward El Lobo, who sat in the shadow of his bunk, his eyes glinting with displeasure. "I'm sorry – I just had to use the bathroom – I'm going back to my bunk now." He tried to move toward his bunk, but the man holding him pushed him back against the bars. Charlie shot a glance again at the guard. Why wasn't he stepping in?

Carlos frowned. "You did not ask permission. No one breaks El Lobo's rules. Now he will determine how you will pay."

Charlie looked wildly back at El Lobo – whose eyes where still glinting – not with displeasure, Charlie now realized, but with pleasure. El Lobo smiled cruelly and spoke, and Charlie opened his mouth to ask Carlos to translate his apology, but the words were choked off as a fist slammed into his gut. He gasped for breath, fruitlessly trying to drag in air.

Montero watched impassively as the fists landed. El Lobo's men took care, as they should, to make sure the blows hit parts of the body covered by clothing, so the abuse would not be visible to outsiders – they targeted primarily the ribs and the gut. He and El Lobo ruled this section of the jail with iron fists– not just the cell that held El Lobo, but all of the surrounding cells in the corridor. It was a symbiotic relationship – Montero allowed El Lobo to maintain leadership over the cellmates, and El Lobo made his job easier by keeping the men in line.

No matter that El Lobo's method of keeping the peace was by instilling fear – it worked. The occasional beating, murder, or rape was a small price to pay. Most men learned quickly to pay homage in whatever way that El Lobo desired – whether it was by tithes of food, cigarettes, money, or physical favors. There were only a very few in the block that El Lobo left alone – one of them, Rubinov the Russian, was in El Lobo's own cell – men so dangerous that El Lobo did not antagonize them. Even those men kept to themselves, and generally followed El Lobo's dictates.

The slight man in the cell fell to his knees, and Montero watched with secret enjoyment as one of the men delivered a last kick to his kidney. The young man arched his back in pain, and the men stepped back, leaving him to crawl on the filthy floor. He crept in agony toward his bunk, and El Lobo smiled with satisfaction. "_Usted escuchará la vez próxima_."

"You will listen next time," translated Carlos, with a righteous nod.

The young man's eyes met Montero's gaze just briefly as he pulled himself painfully back onto his bunk, and Montero caught the expression of betrayal and disbelief. He smiled back coldly. They all learned, eventually. He just needed to make sure this one understood that it was in his best interests not to talk about what happened to anyone outside. Perhaps he would stop at the guard station, and see if the man was scheduled for any appointments. He exchanged a brief nod with El Lobo, and headed down the corridor.

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Don followed Alan into the kitchen, carting a bag of groceries. The message light on the phone was flashing, and Alan glanced at it. Hopefully, it was Charlie, telling him he had made it safely, although he would be surprised if it was. Generally, Charlie got himself so immersed in other things that he forgot he was supposed to call until Alan called him. He'd pick it up in a minute, he thought; he had groceries to put away, dinner to start, and a gloomy-looking son to deal with. It was the first time Don had been over to the house since his and Charlie's argument, and Alan knew it was no coincidence that Don's visit occurred on the first day that Charlie was gone.

He pulled a can of crushed tomatoes out of the bag just as the phone rang, and sighed with just a bit of impatience. He had worked late, it was a long day, and he didn't need to be delaying dinner any more than he was. He crossed over to the phone, tomatoes still in hand, and picked up the phone. "Yes, this is him. Who? Tolliver?"

Don glanced at his father idly. Probably a sales person, he thought, as he put milk into the refrigerator. He heard a thunk behind him and turned, his eye catching the rolling can of tomatoes on the floor before he swiveled all the way around to see Alan. His father was leaning on the table heavily with one hand, his face white with shock, the phone still to his ear.

"No, I'm still here," said Alan weakly into the phone. "There has to be a mistake. You did say cocaine? Charlie?" He raised scared, bewildered eyes, and Don felt a strange sinking sensation, as his heart slid into his shoes.

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There was a clanging sound, and voices in the corridor. Charlie opened pain-filled eyes at the commotion. The men in his cell were sliding out of their bunks and lining up at the door, and through the bars, he could see men in the cell across the corridor doing the same. He looked at El Lobo, who spoke to Carlos.

"Get up," said Carlos, translating brusquely. "Get in line. It is dinner."

Charlie stifled a groan as he eased gingerly off the bunk, and stood slowly. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he grabbed the top bunk for a second, waiting for it to pass before he hobbled painfully to the back of the line. The door clanged open, and they moved forward, joining the longer line of men outside. They shuffled out of the corridor and into the main hallway. The cells in the top two stories were still filled with men; Charlie realized that they must eat in shifts.

The dining hall looked like a high school cafeteria, only dirtier, and with uglier paint. The tables had been wiped, but not with soap; they shone with the residue of grease from previous meals. Each man picked up a battered tray, still wet from a quick washing, and received a plate of food, a bowl of soup, and a glass of water. Charlie stood uncertainly with his food, oddly reminded of his first day in the Princeton cafeteria, wondering where to sit.

Montero answered that question for him, in heavily accented English. "Sit with your cell," he commanded in a gruff voice, and Charlie reluctantly moved toward the table where El Lobo was sitting. The men were already eating, shoveling food into their mouths, although no one was touching the soup, Charlie noticed. It consisted of a yellow-gray liquid with tiny suspended particles, corn meal perhaps, and some mysterious chunks of unidentifiable vegetables. It looked like vomit; it was no wonder the others were leaving it.

Charlie set his tray down and carefully, painfully eased onto the bench, surveying the rest of the meal. A slab of some kind of meat, a wedge of something that looked like polenta, greens, and a thick piece of bread adorned the plate. It looked at least somewhat edible, and Charlie realized that in spite of the pain and the fear, he hadn't eaten all day, and he was hungry. He reached for the hunk of bread, but before his fingers closed on it, his hand was knocked away.

He looked up in surprise, as the man next to him grabbed his plate, and placed it in the middle of the table near El Lobo. El Lobo speared the chunk of meat; then nodded, and the rest of the men divided the contents of the plate between them. Charlie watched, nonplussed, as they began to devour his meal, but he knew better than to protest. Only one man didn't participate in the theft; the silent one from the bottom bunk ignored the rest of them, his eyes on his own meal.

Charlie cast a quick look around to see if a guard had caught what happened, briefly wondering if they would let him get another plate. Montero was the closest guard, and the sneer on his face told Charlie that another trip to the line would not be an option. He looked at the soup, resignedly, and picking up a spoon, stirred it tentatively. The smell turned his stomach, but he realized that he needed to eat something. He took a breath and lifted a spoonful, then stopped in revulsion. A cockroach lay in the middle of the spoon, next to a chunk of carrot, legs folded neatly across its body. Charlie dropped the spoon, and pushed the bowl away. He eyed the glass of water, knowing he should at least take in some fluids, but the prospect of another trip to the toilet made him think twice. Defeated, he lowered his head and sat staring at his lap, waiting for the meal to be over, trying to ignore his aching body and empty stomach.

Rubinov chewed his food, silently, casting a glance at the young man across the table, and felt an uncharacteristic twist in his heart. He was an assassin by trade; he had killed many in his life, and compassion was normally a foreign emotion. The new prisoner, however, was the image of his own younger brother Andre, at least as he had looked the last time Rubinov has seen him; many hard years had passed since then. He hadn't thought of Andre in a long time, and the reminder had made him realize with new regret the passage of time, of the things in his life that might have been. Rubinov took in the young man's sad expression; his innocence and vulnerability stood out like a beacon in this crowd of hardened felons; and for the first time in many years, Rubinov felt the stirrings of sympathy for another human being in his hard, stony heart.

Charlie walked between the tiers of cells as quickly as he was able, his cuffed hands and sore torso impeding his movements, Montero behind him. After dinner the night before, before he could climb into his bunk, El Lobo had approached him, cornering him against the bars. The man had leered at him, and much to Charlie's horror and revulsion, had caressed his cheek suggestively, saying something in Spanish that drew lewd laughter from the other men. El Lobo had stepped back, watching in amusement as Charlie scurried for his bunk, where he had spent a sleepless, terrified night, praying that he would be left alone.

Now it was morning, and Montero had told him he had a meeting with a representative from the U.S. embassy. Charlie had actually managed to hang onto a piece of dried bread at breakfast; El Lobo had seemed to ignore him that morning, and now he was going to talk to someone about getting out of here, and to get a chance to find out about Amita. Montero had brought shaving equipment, and he had been allowed to shave and wash his face and hands. Things were looking up, just a little.

They passed through the security checkpoint and into an empty hallway, but before Charlie could start down it, he was grabbed roughly by the collar and pushed against the wall. Montero leaned forward menacingly, his face inches from Charlie's.

"When asked about your treatment, you will say that you are being treated well, do you understand?" he hissed.

Charlie stared back at him, his heart thumping. Actually, he had planned to ask to be moved to a cell in solitary confinement, anything to get away from El Lobo and his men.

Montero seemed to read his mind. "Even if you tell the representative what is happening, and he protests, it will take some time to arrange a move. Before that can happen, you will be dead – I will make sure of it – but not before the men have their fun. Comprendes?"

Charlie nodded slowly, and Montero watched with satisfaction as the look of despair surfaced in the prisoner's eyes. Yes, he understood. He stood back and nodded, and the prisoner turned back down the hall, his shoulders slumped.

Moments later, Charlie sat at table in a small room, across from Joe Tolliver. They had shaken hands, awkwardly because of the handcuffs, and exchanged names. Tolliver was a wiry man of medium height, in his upper forties, with a pleasant, sympathetic face. He looked at the prisoner, assessing his condition. Clean-shaven, no apparent injuries. "How are they treating you?" he asked.

Charlie was acutely aware of Montero, standing behind him. He glanced away. "Okay."

Tolliver's eyes narrowed slightly, trying to read the brief response. "How many in your cell?" he asked. The correct answer should have been 'none' – the man should be in a private holding cell prior to trial.

"Seven others," Charlie replied, not realizing that he was admitting they had placed him where they shouldn't. Montero scowled.

Tolliver looked up at the guard sharply. "You put him in the general population? He hasn't been to trial yet." He caught the flash of fear in the prisoner's face, and his quick glance at Montero.

Montero shrugged. "The holding cells are full. There is no law that says he cannot be placed with the others."

Tolliver glared at him. "I'll take it up with the warden." He looked again at Charlie. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Charlie looked down at his hands. "Yes, I'm fine." He changed the subject, quickly. "My friend, my colleague, Amita – how is she?"

Tolliver regarded the dark, anxious eyes across from him and spoke quietly. "She's currently unconscious. She's in the hospital, and is being well cared for."

Charlie looked down at his hands again, trying to fight back sudden tears. "What – what did they give her?"

Tolliver frowned. "The doctors?"

Charlie looked back up at him, a fierce intensity in his eyes. "No – they drugged us, on the plane. Whoever planted the drugs in my bag put something in our wine."

Tolliver eyed him for a moment. He didn't know the young man; he could be an accomplished actor, and might really be a drug runner. His resume, his background as a well-known academic said otherwise, however, and so did his reaction. The professor's eyes were steady; his words had the ring of truth.

"Cocaine," said Tolliver quietly. "The doctors said she had a reaction to the combination of alcohol and cocaine."

Charlie felt his heart drop. "She's going to be okay, though, right? They're treating her…"

Tolliver had spoken to the doctors; he knew that the woman was not merely unconscious; she was in a coma, with possible brain damage from the seizures and lack of oxygen, and the prognosis wasn't good. Dr. Eppes had enough on his mind, though, and he chose his words carefully. "They're doing everything they can." He watched as Eppes bowed his head, and cleared his throat, changing the subject.

"I got hold of your father last evening. He and your brother are on their way here – in fact, they'll be here tonight, but I couldn't arrange another visit until tomorrow morning. We'll get a longer visit tomorrow, and I'll have a lawyer here – we can start to discuss your defense."

Charlie felt a quick flash of relief at the news that his father was on the way. He had to admit, in spite of his argument with Don; that the feeling of relief extended to his brother, too. Don would know what to do. "What exactly are they charging me with?"

"Cocaine use – they found it in your blood and urine samples. Also, possession of cocaine in an amount large enough to deal, and transportation of it across international borders." He paused for a moment, loath to deliver the next words. "If convicted, it could mean a life sentence."

Charlie stared at him. "But they surely can't believe that I would do this – if a person was trying to smuggle cocaine, they wouldn't be drinking; they wouldn't be using it on an airplane – that would be stupid. When my brother gets here, tell him to check out the flight crew – I'm almost positive that the flight attendant who waited on us was the one who planted it. There's my background to consider, my security clearances…They have to see that this is a set-up."

"Time is up," growled Montero.

Tolliver shot him an annoyed glance, but picked up his files, and stood, his concerned eyes on Charlie's anxious face. "We've already been contacted by some high-ranking officials in the U.S. government. They've made sure that you have the best possible lawyer."

Tolliver's sympathetic expression, his evasive answer, spoke volumes. Charlie felt cold fear returning. He realized, for the first time, there was a chance that whoever planned this might actually get away with it. He rose slowly to his feet as Tolliver left, not registering the man's good-bye, staring stunned, blankly, at the tabletop.

As he lifted his eyes, he met Montero' gaze, and took in the evil glint, the cold amusement. "Come," said Montero. "I will take you back to your friends."

End, Chapter 7


	8. Quantico Be Damned

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 8: Quantico Be Damned**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

It was indeed a rare reaction. Not all of the medical personnel confronted with the comatose young woman had seen such a thing before. Students, interns and residents from as far as three hours away traveled to Santiago to study her test results and confer with the senior physicians on staff at Hospitalario Univesitario Santiago. She did not fit the profile of the typical drug runner, and they would shake their heads in sorrow. To have such an allergic reaction to cocaine, it was obvious she had never used it before, and they wondered how such a woman could be coerced. "_Amor,_" sniffed a serious-looking coed in obvious distaste. "American women, they do anything for man. A physicist, the records say, on her way to LACOST..." She clucked disdainfully. "Probably, she did not even know what he did."

One of the young men walking across the hospital campus with her bristled. "You cannot know that. You only say that because you want it to be true. He is famous. Also on his way to LACOST. Why would he do such a thing?"

She pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Arrogance," she decided. "No matter -- he sits in our prison now.While the poor woman languishes in a coma, barely resuscitated from the respiratory arrest. Imagine! Educated as she was, she would never mix cocaine and alcohol! I tell you, he is responsible. May he rot."

"You speak as though she were already dead," he responded in a slightly worried tone. "Dr. Aguarro has cautioned you against this detached attitude." He looked around nervously, and crossed himself. "Also, I do not like it. You summon ill-will."

She laughed; a shrill and bitter sound. "Miguel," she chided. "You are too superstitious to be a scientist. You saw the same results to the tests as I. The woman will not live."

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In the dim light of the cabin, Alan tried to study his son's face. "Donny, thank you again for getting us on this flight. I don't know how you did it, but if we had to wait for the morning I'm certain I couldn't have done it."

To his utter consternation, Don's face fell even further. "Don't thank me," he grunted. "This is the kind of thing a brother _should_ do." His voice became self-deprecating. "Although I can understand your confusion, considering my track record."

Alan spoke quietly; loathe to disturb passengers around them who were trying to sleep. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice, however. "Don Alan. That's more than enough of that. Maybe you showed poor judgment over the whole Quantico thing, but that's why they call it _'life'_. People make mistakes. Don't make another one by focusing on your guilt. Charlie needs us both right now."

Don sighed, his father's words settling in his chest like a cold. "Don't you think I know that?" he hissed. "Charlie probably won't even agree to see me. I'm not sure you understand just how hurt he is, Dad."

Alan snorted, and the passenger in front of him turned his head to shoot him a dirty look. He lowered his voice even more, so that Don had to strain to hear him. "Of course he was hurt, Don. I'm not saying that the two of you don't have some issues to work out, here. But he's in a South American prison right now, separated from a girlfriend who might be dying. Somehow, I think even Charlie may let that situation take precedence."

The truth of Alan's words started a kernel of resolve growing within Don. Quantico be damned. He knew Charlie as well as he had ever known anyone. He had known, deep down, that he was making a mistake by not talking to him about the Quantico class – and he knew now that his kid brother was no more a drug runner than he was a unicorn. Someone had set him up, and may have killed Amita in the process. He straightened a little in his seat. His chin took on a familiar set of determination, and his eyes flashed in the dark.

Somebody was going to pay.

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Charlie lay in the night – he thought – it was difficult to tell since they never turned the lights off; and waited for morning. Tolliver had promised that his father and Don would be there sometime the next day. He felt very much his position in the family, right now. He longed to be held and comforted by his father. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the Old Spice; almost feel the warmth and strength of those arms squeezing the very life out of him. Just as badly, he wanted Don to defend him from the bullies – whoever they were. Don would identify them, make sure Charlie was safe, and then beat the shit out of them; just like he had done all of Charlie's life. Forget Quantico. Quantico be damned. Charlie would never think about Quantico again, if Don would just get him out of this.

His bunk dipped precariously and Charlie was jolted from his thoughts. His eyes flew open and he scooted toward the wall. He refused to turn his head, refused to acknowledge the hand on his thigh, refused to feel the hot breath of his neck. This was not happening. Dear God in Heaven, this was not happening.

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Despite the odds against it, both Eppes had managed to drift off to sleep. Alan's hand had found its way to Don's arm, and his fingers were lightly twisted in the fabric of Don's rolled-up shirt sleeve. Without such a solid hold, he surely would have awoken when Don gasped and bolted upright in his seat. As it was, the violent jerk did not even shake Alan off, but only resulted in a mild grunt of protest and an unconscious tightening of his grasp. Don's eyes were wide and dilated; his breathing rapid and shallow. His heart pounded in his chest and he could feel his own pulse racing. He knew that something had just happened, and he knew it was not a dream. It was real, and it was terrifying, and it was Charlie. He felt Charlie more surely than he felt the weight of his father's hand. Charlie was afraid -- more afraid than he had ever been before. He was in imminent danger, and Don was stuck several thousand feet in the air and still four hours away from him. He moaned involuntarily; not even aware of the sound. "Hang in there, Chuck," he whispered. "I'm coming. I'm coming."

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Charlie struggled to breathe through the hand clamped over his mouth, and his mind reverted to numbers.

Another hand reached around to the front of his jumpsuit, and he thought about one of the first cases he had worked on for Don. He had learned than in America, someone was sexually assaulted every 2.5 minutes. _But this is not America_, he thought, struggling against his unknown captor. He rammed his elbow back into something solid, and the numbers continued to speak. The odds were against this. For one thing, as noted, he was not in America. For another, 80 percent of all victims were under the age of 30, and only 10 percent were male. Still, he thought, as he grunted from a well-placed knee to his kidney, the year he had helped Don on the serial rapist case, there had been 200,780 sexual assaults. That was a lot, he realized vaguely, feeling a rush of cold air as several buttons were ripped off the front of his jumpsuit. He drew up his knees protectively, as far as he could, and tried to open his mouth more into the dirty, sweaty hand, growing desperate in his search for air.

He began to lose sight of the numbers, and several things happened at once.

Without consciously planning the action, he clamped his teeth into the hand. The outraged yell that reverberated in his ear dimmed as the hand jerked up and away, fisting into Charlie's hair and yanking his head backwards in a sudden and painful arch. He heard and felt something in his neck crack, and had a brief moment of lucidity, surprised that a person could feel his own neck break. He screamed in agony, completely drowning out the voice of Rubinov. "_Hibrido_!" the Russian was yelling, pulling at the would-be rapist. "_Estupido hibrido! El gringo es por El Lobo! Parada, parada_!"

Charlie did not hear the angry growl of surrender. He did not even feel the final blow to the middle of his back -- the one that cracked a rib. By then, he was blissfully unconscious.

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Rubinov was angry.

He had no idea why he had done that. He had no clue what had led him to interfere with the natural order of things. Any other night, any other _gringo_, and Sanchez could have done whatever he wanted. He himself had never developed a taste for this sort of thing -- the worst part of incarceration for him was the lack of women -- but he was not particular about the practices of others. Live and let live. But when Andre's grunts of protest and the struggle between the men had awakened him, Rubinov had acted out of instinct. When Andre...

_Carumba!_

Was he losing his mind, now?

The lost and terrified man was not Andre. In truth, Rubinov did not even know if his little brother was alive. Yet because of the memory, he had risked his own life, taking on El Lobo's Number One deputy. The others in the cell block saw it as a move for the top position -- a war between bucks. They waited to see who would tear the horns off the other first. They would follow the winner, and they would not stop to mourn the loser.

Rubinov showed his back to Sanchez, a deliberate and disdainful move. He drew himself up to his full height, glaring at anyone who dared to look at him and expanding like a peacock. Then he slowly leaned over, and gently used his fingers to find a steady pulse on the exposed and still neck. He was not dead, then, this boy. Rubinov took his time repositioning the body. He aligned the head and neck, and drew the jumpsuit closed where the buttons had been ripped off. He heard Sanchez moving behind him, and turned in a fluid motion perfected by years of training. In an instant he had an arm crooked around Sanchez' neck, and he squeezed until he felt the man go limp. Over the head of Sanchez he held the gaze of El Lobo, who was watching the drama with interest. "This one is special," Rubinov stated plainly. "He is not for the likes of this." He released his choke hold, and Sanchez dropped bonelessly to the floor. Men looked away as a pool of urine grew beneath him.

There was silence for a moment, and then a slow smile crept over El Lobo's face. Sanchez had been a good sergeant, but Rubinov would be better. He had the brute strength, and was infinitely smarter. El Lobo decided he was pleased with the outcome of the challenge. He reached out to caress the small man closest to him. "El Lobo is made happy by Rene," he said, speaking in the third person, as he always did. "El Lobo gives the _gringo_ to you." He sniffed and indicated Sanchez, still unconscious on the floor. "Remove that from my sight. It offends me."

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End, Chapter 8


	9. The Protector

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 9: ****The Protector**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

While Alan waiting impatiently for the luggage, Don flashed his badge and demanded to be put in touch with the crew from Charlie's flight. He wasn't sure how long he could intimidate these people with his shield -- it wasn't as if this was really an official FBI investigation. Presentation was over half the battle, however, and he intended to get away with it as long as he could. The sooner he found out who framed Charlie, the sooner this would all be over. So he made no attempt to conceal his impatience, and used his best G-man swagger. The agent at the ticket counter quickly summoned his manager, who soon decided to turn this angry American over to the airline security office. Once there, Don was bumped up the line through three levels of command before he finally got the news that nearly crushed him: The crew was already on its way back to LAX on their return flight, due to land within the hour.

He swore and stormed out of the office, glancing at his watch again. Alan was probably going crazy waiting for him, by now. A thought skittered through his mind as he reached for his cell phone. His father had _better_ be waiting for him. Don wouldn't be surprised if the stubborn old man abandoned him and went straight to the prison in Santiago!

"Don? Caller ID says it's you, but shouldn't you be in Santiago? How's Charlie?"

He continued to stride through the corridor and sighed in relief. Thank God Granger wasn't out in the field on a case, or something. "Colby. Problem."

He spoke in the clipped shorthand Colby had learned to recognize early in their relationship. The other agent responded in kind. "What do you need?"

"Just landed, have to go see Charlie. I wanted to interview the crew on his flight first, but they're on the way back to LAX. Somebody on that crew has to know something, Granger. Charlie was set-up."

The decision was instantaneous, and required no thought. "I'm on it. Flight number?"

Don felt a flood of gratitude and relief; and just a tinge of guilt. "This isn't official Colby, you know that."

His eyes squeezed involuntarily shut for a moment at the response. "Family is never official. This is family. Give me the flight number."

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Charlie opened his eyes, and expected to see his mother.

Instead, the filthy brick wall mocked him. His synapses were flooded as he realized everything at once: He was not dead; He was still in a Chilean jail cell; He still didn't know anything concrete about Amita; He may have been raped; and he had definitely been hurt. He moaned and shifted, and thought about rubbing his aching neck - but his arms were too heavy to lift. Which was probably good, because apparently they were needed to hold his guts together.

There was a shout in Spanish, and a hand shook his shoulder. "Come. It is time for the morning meal.You must come if you do not want the infirmary…and trust me, you do not want the infirmary."

Charlie jerked away from the hand, jarring everything that already hurt. He tried to move his eyes without moving his head, so he could see who was talking. A strong sense of sweat engulfed and vaguely sickened Charlie as someone leaned over him. He realized suddenly whomever it was spoke to him in English, with a non-Spanish accent. Russian, or Eastern European, he thought vaguely. He looked up to see the big, quiet man from the adjacent lower bunk.

"I will help you," Rubinov promised, dragging a ragged, thin blanket off Charlie. "You are protected, now. El Lobo gave you to me. They have taken Sanchez away, and I have his coat for you." The voice became more urgent, and Charlie felt a strong hand on his neck. "Come! The guards will not wait long."

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The technician drew another blood sample. The veins were good. The woman did not abuse herself with drugs, he was sure. The tube filled, and he withdrew the needle, expertly securing a cotton ball with a few rounds of his tape. He removed the tight rubber band from her upper arm, placed all of his materials in the plastic carryall, and paused to regard her face. _Muy bonita_, he could tell, even though so much was obscured by the ventilator. Such silky, dark hair. So young.

He watched the enforced rise and fall of her chest, and his own felt true sorrow. So tragic. All of it, tragic. The allergic reaction; her isolation here – why was no one coming for her? Regardless of the documents faxed to the hospital from her American physician, it was not right that strangers in a foreign hospital do this thing.

Someone who knew her, and loved her, should at least say a prayer for her before all the equipment was turned off.

He shook his head and turned to leave.

Such a tragedy.

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Charlie did not understand why Rubinov now protected him, but he understood that he did. What he couldn't comprehend was the man's motivation – had he decided he wanted Charlie for himself? He shuddered at the thought, but at least he was only dealing with one of them. Other prisoners now left him alone, even averted their eyes. The Russian's presence on the bench next to him had assured that his meal was untouched, as well, but Charlie had not had the appetite to take advantage of that fact. As it was, he barely avoided becoming ill. The runny gruel contained at least two dead flies, and assaulted his nose with a putrid odor. He sat zombie-like, waiting to be directed by his new "owner". He fluctuated between thoughts of Amita, memories of her thrashing in the aisle of the airplane; and mind-numbing terror that Rubinov would eventually claim his ownership. Surely, at some point, the larger man would come for him, and Charlie knew he could not fight him off, in his present state.

Charlie was allowed to lie quietly on his bunk all morning after they returned from breakfast. He shivered in the filthy coat and suppressed a groan as his ribs protested. He wished he could reach around to his back, and massage his aching kidneys. A dull pain had begun to radiate down into his shoulders and arms, and he wondered what damage had been done to his neck. He closed his eyes against budding tears, and whispered into the wall. _"Help me. Don. Dad. Help me."_

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Penfield listened in on the three-way conversation from his hotel room. He was on his cell phone; and a man from the cartel that he knew only as Rafe had tied him into his man, Jorge, who was sitting outside the prison. Jorge was speaking, and Penfield tried to follow the Spanish. He'd taken it in school, and although it had been a few years since he'd had to use it, it was coming back rapidly since he'd started dealing with the Colombians.

Jorge spoke from the prison parking lot, watching the Eppes, Tolliver, and their lawyer. "His family is here – they are conversing with his lawyer. It is Reyes."

"I am aware of that," replied Rafe.

"Is he any good?" asked Penfield.

"The best."

Penfield squirmed in his seat. "What if he gets him out on bail? Won't that make it a lot harder for you to get to him?"

"That is already taken care of," came Rafe's cool voice. "He motioned for bail this morning, and we have already spoken with the judge. It would be good, however, if you got involved. Offer your help to the family, insinuate yourself in their investigation. You can let us know what their legal moves might be. In the meantime, we will accelerate our plans to remove him from the prison."

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Tolliver showed his ID to the guard, and pulled past the security checkpoint into the visitor's portion of the parking lot. Don, in the backseat, glanced at his father's profile. Alan was sitting in the passenger seat, his face was pale, his jaw set. The prison building loomed over them, gray and forbidding.

They stepped out of the vehicle, Tolliver looked around, and an expression of recognition crossed his face. "There he is."

Don turned to see a man approaching across the lot. He was of medium build, dark, with movie-star looks, and Don's brow knit with suspicion. "This guy had better not be all-looks-and-no-brains," he muttered to himself.

The man jogged the last couple of steps, his hand out. His voice was cultured, pleasant, and without a hint of an accent, and his shoes and suit looked expensive. "Gentlemen, hello, I'm Jaime Reyes."

Alan took the man's hand, as he continued, "I've been retained as Dr. Eppes' attorney."

Alan eyed him sharply. "Alan Eppes, Charlie's father. Are you a public defender?"

"Actually, no."

"Then, who, may I ask, retained you?"

Reyes looked around quickly; unaware of the man watching them from a vehicle parked across the lot, and spoke quietly. "I am going to ask that you keep this to yourselves. I was approached by a top official representing a group in your government, and they are paying my fees." He looked back at them. "I'm not sure what your financial situation is, but frankly, you probably couldn't afford me. I do want to ask you to retain me also, however, for a nominal fee. This is a delicate situation, and understandably, the U.S. government does not want to be tied to it. If I can get you to sign a retainer, when the press asks, I can honestly answer that you retained me." He held out a tablet with a form laid on top of it, and a pen.

Don looked at him suspiciously. "Where did you go to law school?"

Reyes looked back at him. "To whom am I speaking?"

Don bristled. "Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI, Charlie's brother."

Reyes studied him. The man was radiating aggression, suspicion. "Harvard."

Tolliver interjected. "Counselor Reyes is considered the best attorney in South America – and he's an expert on international law."

Reyes raised a hand, waving away Tolliver's accolades, and accepted the signed paper that Alan handed back to him. Don wasn't finished. "And what's the nominal fee?" he asked, suspiciously.

Reyes returned his gaze calmly. "One dollar U.S. ought to do it."

Alan stared at him a moment in surprise, then reached for his wallet. "I think I can handle that." He handed Reyes the dollar, with a warning look at Don, who shut his mouth, but continued to scowl.

"All right, now that we've settled that – I wanted you to know I already filed paperwork to get Dr. Eppes out on bail. I wanted to get the motion in early, before the judge could be influenced. The story's already in the paper." He pulled a newspaper out of his briefcase and handed it to them. Charlie's and Amita's faces took up a good part of the front page, and Don recognized the professional shots taken for the CalSci website. Alan frowned, trying to make out the Spanish.

"The story is creating quite a sensation here," said Reyes quietly. "I was hoping that the judge would rule on bail before he saw it. In fact, we should hear from the court by the end of our visit – we may even be able to take Dr. Eppes with us when we go."

Alan's face flooded with relief, and he handed the paper back. "That would be wonderful." They turned and began to walk toward the entrance.

Reyes looked at Tolliver. "You saw him yesterday. He's holding up okay?"

Tolliver frowned. "Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. He seemed okay, but when I asked him how he was doing, he was a bit evasive. They had him in with the general population. I asked the warden to move him before I left yesterday, and he said he would check into it. It seemed to me that Dr. Eppes was perhaps not answering truthfully; he seemed wary of the guard."

Reyes answered with a frown of his own, and rubbed the back of his neck. "What?" asked Don, anxiously.

Reyes returned their concerned gazes. "This place doesn't have the best reputation. It's pretty rough, and it only houses big time offenders. There have been allegations…" He thought better of it, and revised what he was about to say. "Maybe they'll let us question him without the guard present."

They had reached the doors, and a guard held them open. Alan couldn't fight back the shudder that ran down his back as they passed through them, and into the building itself.

End, Chapter 9


	10. Get Me Outta Here

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 10: Get Me Outta Here**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Charlie walked slowly in front of Montero, each footstep provoking new pain in his neck. He breathed shallowly, jerkily, trying not to inhale too deeply and irritate his damaged rib cage. Montero stopped at a communal bathroom, empty at this hour. It was the same place he had taken Charlie to shave the day before. He held out the shaving apparatus and Charlie shook his head slightly, wincing, trying not to jar his neck. "I don't want to shave." _I hurt too much._

Montero thrust the razor and shaving cream at him, angrily. "You will make yourself presentable, or you will not have your visit."

Charlie looked at him, miserably, and took the toiletries from him. He could barely stand to lift his arms. Painful minutes later, bearing a less-than-immaculate shave, he stepped carefully toward the door, where Montero was waiting. He held out a clean jumpsuit. "You will change."

Charlie hesitated. After what had happened the night before, the last thing he wanted to do was strip in front of another man. He took the garment slowly, carefully, and shuffled to the other side of a wall that sectioned off the communal shower, and painfully stripped out of his torn jumpsuit and donned the clean one. Finally, he met Montero's approval. He stepped out, the handcuffs were applied, and they made their way down the hallway.

He had to stop once, swaying with dizziness. The piece of bread yesterday morning was all the food he'd had in over two days, and he was feeling the effects of the lack of nourishment. In spite of the dizziness and the pain, however, Charlie's short steps began to lengthen and quicken, as he drew nearer to the interview room. It had seemed almost like a dream, but he really was going to get to see them – his family was on the other side of the door.

As much as he wanted to see them, he was afraid – afraid he wouldn't be able to hold in the emotion, the fear. They would see it and know what happened. They would protest to the warden, and Montero would hand him over to the other prisoners. He would be violated and killed before he could be freed. Even worse was the pervasive sensation that he was dirty. It would disgust them to know that another man had touched him, especially Don. _Can't let them see how afraid you are. Can't let them know what happened. Keep yourself together. _An odd mix of joy and terror swirled inside him, as Montero opened the door.

Alan caught his breath and rose from the table as the door opened. Charlie stepped through slowly, carefully, his face pinched and white, and Alan stood and moved toward him automatically, as if to embrace him. "Charlie -," he said brokenly.

"Stop," commanded Montero, stepping forward. "No contact with prisoners. Stay on your side of the table."

Alan paused, his eyes filling with tears, and Charlie froze for a moment, just staring at him; then glanced with trepidation at Montero.

As his eyes moved, they met Don's, and Don tried hard not to react. His brother's face was filled with despair and fear. As Charlie glanced sideways at the guard, Don knew without question – his brother was clearly terrified. His heart sank, as he watched Charlie shuffle slowly to the table, and sink carefully into a chair, his slight figure tense, nearly swallowed by the hideous mustard-yellow jumpsuit.

Charlie's heart dropped at the guard's words; he wanted more than anything to be held by his father right now, for someone to tell him it was going to be okay. He could see the commiseration in Alan's eyes, the obvious love there, and he clung to the sight mentally, trying to draw strength from it.

As he glanced at Don, however, his heart dropped even further. There was no such expression in his brother's eyes; they were dark, and he had his game face on – nearly expressionless except for a slight scowl. In spite of himself, Charlie felt doubt creep into his mind; doubt generated by his brother's recent decision to develop the FBI course without him. Don looked angry, irritated. He wasn't here because he wanted to be, Charlie realized with a pang; he was here because he had to be. Don was here for Alan's sake – to help him bail out his disgrace of a son. Even if Don knew he wasn't guilty, he had to be exasperated by Charlie's inability to stay out of trouble – the gullibility that allowed him to get into this mess.

Don watched Charlie sit slowly, and saw his eyes flicker toward him, then away. He was trying hard to control his emotions, the anger he felt at seeing Charlie so helpless, so afraid. He still couldn't tell for sure if Charlie was hurt, or if his reactions were slowed by the fear, the despair. He took a chair at the end of the table, unconsciously picking the seat nearest the guard.

Tolliver muttered in Reyes' ear as the Eppes family exchanged greetings. "He looks worse than yesterday."

Reyes studied the young man, his face outwardly composed. Dr. Eppes was younger-looking than he expected, and his heart sank as he looked at his client's slight build, the head of curls. Eppes would be a natural target in this hellhole. Reyes' request that they talk to Charles Eppes alone had been denied, and he could only imagine why. He glanced at the guard, trying to figure out a way to communicate.

He held out his hand, and Charlie took it, awkwardly. '_Was the awkwardness generated by the handcuffs, or something else?_' wondered Reyes. His client was sitting rigidly, moving stiffly, as if he was in pain, but he could see no apparent injuries. "I'm Jaime Reyes, your attorney," he said.

Charlie looked at Alan, then at Tolliver. "How is Amita?"

Tolliver shot a warning glance at Alan, who had opened his mouth. He hadn't had a chance to tell them that he had glossed over her condition a bit. "The same," Joe answered, before Alan could speak.

Charlie's face fell. "Still unconscious? She hasn't woken up at all?"

Alan had picked up on the fact that Charlie didn't realize how bad her condition was, and he kept wisely silent, as Tolliver answered with a quiet negative.

Reyes started shuffling through his briefcase suddenly. "I had your father sign a form that retains me as your attorney," he said, "but I need you to sign it also." He was making a show of plowing through the papers, and Don scowled in annoyance. He could see the paper right there on top. Maybe this guy wasn't the hotshot everyone said he was.

"It's right there," he said, irritation in his voice.

Reyes smiled and glared at him, speaking through clenched teeth. "That's not it." He pulled out a pad and began to write on it, speaking to Charlie. "I'll just write one up quickly, and have you sign it."

Don glanced idly at the tablet, annoyed that the man was so caught up in paperwork; then did a double take. From his angle, he could see what Reyes was writing.

_I'm going to ask you some questions. I know you can't answer truthfully with the guard here. Whenever you respond with a lie, tap the table with your finger. _

Don looked across the table, and met Alan's eyes. His father had read it, too. Alan's gaze shifted unconsciously to the guard, then away. _'Don't look at him, Dad,'_ thought Don, trying to fight the urge to glance at the man also. He looked instead at Reyes, with new respect. Maybe the guy had a brain, after all.

Charlie had grown silent, staring at the table after receiving news of Amita, and dejectedly took the pen the attorney offered him. He moved his hands in a position to write; then stopped as his eyes fell on the words. His eyes lifted briefly to Reyes' then he gave a slight nod, and signed the tablet.

Reyes took the tablet and the pen and looked at Charlie. "How have they been treating you?"

"Okay," answered Charlie, looking back at him. His cuffed hands were resting on the table, his body blocking them from Montero's view. His left forefinger tapped the table, twice. Alan swallowed. The taps said his son was lying – he wasn't okay. He could see the fear, the unsaid messages, in his son's dark eyes.

"Have you been getting enough to eat?"

"Yes." _Tap, tap. _Reyes began taking down his responses on a second sheet of paper. Montero stood, impassively observing them. Alan wondered frantically if he had any food, and began to fumble in his pockets.

"You were in the general population yesterday. They were supposed to take you out and put you in a cell of your own. Did they?"

Charlie's eyes bored back into Reyes'. "Yes." _Tap, tap._ Don felt a slow burn start, a simmering fury in his gut. He set his jaw, and he saw Charlie glance at him, fearfully.

"While you were in the general population, were you assaulted physically?"

Charlie shot a quick glance at Montero. "No." This time he tapped with not one finger, but two. "Twice," thought Reyes, and he exchanged a glance with Tolliver. Beyond Tolliver, he could see Alan Eppes, mightily trying to hold back tears, rubbing a hand over his face as if from fatigue. To Reyes' left, Don Eppes sat with one leg crossed, and from Montero's viewpoint Don's arm rested casually across it, the hand apparently hanging out of sight under the table. From where Reyes sat, he could see that hand – Agent Eppes was grasping the leg of the table so tightly that his knuckles where white, his eyes dark with fury.

Reyes turned his gaze back to his client, and tried hard to hide the concern in his own eyes. The man was probably injured, or worse…

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly less confident. "While you were in the general population, did anyone assault you sexually?"

Don watched, his heart his throat, as Charlie froze, raw pain in his eyes. He glanced quickly at Alan, then at Don himself, swiftly averting his eyes, refusing to hold their gaze.

Charlie's stomach churned, as a feeling of horror and shame engulfed him. _Had the act been completed, or not? If it hadn't, then it didn't count, right? _He tried to ignore the memory of the pawing hands ripping his clothes, the hot breath on his neck._ Didn't count, didn't count…_

Reyes watched him, his brow furrowed. "Dr. Eppes?"

"No," said Charlie quietly, staring at the table. No taps.

Don stared back at him, scarcely daring to breathe. _Charlie? Please, no…_

"You're sure," said Reyes.

"I'm sure." The hands were still. Charlie's eyes flickered toward Don, then away, and Don knew. He could see the relief in his father's face, but he knew better. After years of questioning witnesses and criminals, he could tell when someone was lying, finger taps or not. _Charlie was lying – dear God, he was lying… _He rose suddenly. He couldn't stay in that room – he was going to explode. "I need to use the restroom," he said gruffly, and Montero inclined his head toward the door.

"Go to your right, second door on the left."

He barely made it out, before the tears came.

When he came back in, moments later, Alan looked at him with a hopeful expression. Don walked past the guard, fighting down the urge to strangle him. "Donny," Alan said, "Charlie thinks he knows who planted the drugs."

Don sat, his face set in flint, because any other expression would give him away. Charlie looked at him uncertainly. "I don't know who planned it, or why," he said quietly, "but I do know that one of the flight attendants had my bag, with no good explanation for it, and she was also the one who gave Amita and I our drinks. I think she spiked them, and planted the drugs in my bag."

Reyes looked at Don. "We should check out the flight crew."

Don nodded. "Already being done." He watched Charlie, who was sitting, ramrod straight, staring at his hands in his lap. "Colby's on it," he added softly, for Charlie's benefit. His brother had glanced up as Reyes spoke, without lifting his head, and Don suddenly knew the reason for the rigidness, the odd posture. He remembered moving that way himself once, years ago, after he rolled a car in a chase. Charlie wasn't moving his head. His neck – he must have hurt his neck.

Charlie glanced at his brother, almost against his will. Don knew the truth about the sexual assault – his reaction when Charlie answered Reyes' questions made it clear. Don was disgusted with him – so disgusted he had to leave the room. Charlie was suddenly, keenly aware of his position in his brother's life. His brother's willingness to do the course without him had made it perfectly clear. All of these years, Don had barely tolerated him, for his father's sake, interfacing with him only when it was convenient, when he needed a case solved. Now that Charlie was a hindrance instead of a help, it was painfully obvious – Don couldn't stand him. He could read it in his face. The only reason he was here was for Alan, and to keep the family name from being dragged into the muck. The thought generated such despair; he almost didn't hear the lawyer's next words.

Reyes looked at Charlie. "I told your father and brother I entered a motion to have you released on bail this morning." He glanced at the clock on his cell phone. "We should be hearing from them any minute. I'm hoping if they call soon, we may be able to take you with us."

Charlie stared at him, incredulously. Bail. He hadn't thought about bail. Granted, this was another country; he didn't understand their legal system, but apparently they had a bail system here too. He could feel a knot start to unravel in his gut. He might get out – hell, he might not have to go back in at all…the thought brought a surge of relief that was so intense it was almost painful.

Alan's eyes misted at the look of hope in his son's eyes. They could get Charlie out, get him to a doctor, get him some food…He glanced down and spotted a candy bar in Reyes' briefcase, and grabbed it. "Here, Charlie, eat this while you wait."

Montero scowled. "No food -," he began.

Don swiveled to face him, his eyes furious. "Stuff it." Montero regarded the naked hate in the other man's eyes for a moment, and then shrugged. He knew when to pick his battles.

Charlie took the candy, realizing that his appetite was returning along with the sense of relief. He fumbled with the wrapper, and as the aroma of chocolate hit his nose, he thought nothing had ever smelled so good.

Don watched, with rising nausea, as his brother devoured the candy bar. Charlie was obviously ravenous…unfed…mistreated… beaten...sexually assaulted…his thoughts swirled in a misty blackness, fed by rage. He realized dimly that a phone was ringing, and came to his senses as Reyes flipped opened his cell phone and rose from the table, stepping across the room.

All of them watched anxiously as Reyes spoke in rapid Spanish, his voice rising – except for Charlie. His neck hurt too much to turn his head or his body, and so he sat there, rigidly, watching the other's faces. He saw Tolliver, who could understand the Spanish, frown first. Don knew Spanish too, and Charlie looked at him; he wore an identical expression. He heard Reyes' voice rise in frustration; and saw the look of concern cross his father's face. His heart had begun a steady descent, even before Reyes clicked the phone shut, and walked back around the table to face him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Eppes," said Reyes, his eyes radiating compassion. "Bail was denied. The judge thinks you're a flight risk. Don't worry, I'm going to appeal – I will file a new motion to have you put on house arrest instead. It will just take a little time…"

Charlie sat numbly, as voices swirled around him, his father and Don erupting in outrage. His eyes traveled sideways, as if possessing a dark will of their own, toward the guard, and he caught Montero's evil smile. Montero held Charlie's eyes, the angry voices faded as the guard's gaze consumed him, and Charlie knew, with awful certainty, that there was nothing, once again, between him and hell.

End, Chapter 10


	11. Don't Say Goodbye

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 11: Don't Say Goodbye**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Penfield watched the dejected group exit the prison – sans Charles Eppes – and smiled. He had driven to the prison after his phone call, and had arrived just as they exited. This was working out quite well. No doubt their man on the inside would make sure South American incarceration dovetailed nicely with all the horror stories out there. By the time the cartel plucked Eppes out, he would be begging to work for them.

He started to open his car door and climb out. He could appreciate the instructions to make nice to the Eppes. If he was part of the inner circle, he could find out what new trick they had up their sleeves. If the cartel was kept informed of that sort of thing, there would be fewer wild cards. At the last second he hesitated, and shut the door again. He was supposed to be several hours away, in the middle of the Atacama Desert, attending LACOST. Everyone knew he and Charlie were not exactly close – why would he blow off the conference and come to the prison? Best to tail them, find out which hotel they were in.

He congratulated himself for his plan when the cab ferrying Don and Alan Eppes avoided the hotel district. They must be up to something already. His self-importance evaporated once he realized they were on their way to the hospital. Marshall had honestly forgotten about Amita, and now an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling descended upon him. He had never intended for her to be hurt. In truth, he had halfway thought about being there to offer her comfort, after Charlie was taken down a notch or two. It would be perfect, sending the arrogant Eppes off into his own convergence, and then walking off into the sunset with his woman. And it wouldn't be at all unpleasant – Marshall had genuinely liked her, when they had met last year.

He watched Don and Alan get out of the cab at the main entrance to the hospital, and slowly circled the parking lot, deep in thought. Maybe there was a way he could work that part of the plan out, still.

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Colby Granger was a student of Don Eppes, and he had natural talents of his own. Even though A.D. Merrick had told the team just that morning – in no uncertain terms -- that the Eppes case was not a Bureau issue, he flashed his shield at every security point in LAX and shut down the flight crew arriving from Santiago. Passengers would be allowed to leave, but each member of the crew would be interviewed by Colby before being cleared to exit the airport.

He worked his way down. After talking to the pilot, the co-pilot and the navigator, he waited for a flight attendant and looked nervously at his watch. He paced the small room that had been provided for the interviews, and rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't know how much longer it would be before someone at the airline figured out he was working solo and had no back-up. Someone could put 2 + 2 together – he smiled, thinking of the Whiz Kid – and shut this whole operation down.

A small woman whose dark hair resembled Amita's entered the room cautiously and peered up at Granger. "I am Elena Barrito. You have identification, yes?"

Colby scowled at her sternly and flashed his badge and Bureau I.D. "Of course. Don't you think your bosses have thoroughly checked that out?"

She blushed slightly and her eyes skittered over his I.D. "One cannot be too careful, señor."

He steered her toward the small card table that had been hurriedly assembled in the room. He held out a chair for her, and when she was seated, took the one on the opposite side of the table. He opened a file folder that lay between them, exposing a photo of Charlie and Amita. It was taken at last year's CalSci faculty holiday party, and the two looked ridiculously happy, smiling only at each other and unaware of the camera. Larry had snapped the digital, which he had then printed out and presented to his friend. Don had seen it on Charlie's desk and shocked his brother half-loopy when he requested one of his own. It had been displayed on the corner of the agent's desk since mid-February, which is when Charlie finally got around to giving it to him. Colby had noticed it again this morning, on his way out, and grabbed it on a whim. "I understand these people were seated in your section three days ago, on the flight from LAX to Santiago."

She glanced at the photo and her nervous energy palpably increased. She tried to cover with a defensive action, tossing her head and looking at Colby defiantly. "I have been working extra flights, and see many hundreds of passengers each week. Surely you cannot expect me to remember?"

Colby's eyes narrowed and he pushed the folder deliberately and slowly closer to her. "Look again. How many of your passengers end up seizing in the aisle during landing and require assistance from the air marshal?"

She paled so dramatically Colby was glad the woman was sitting down. "Ah…I…yes," she stuttered, glancing at the photo again. "Of, of course. I did not recognize them, looking so happy and in such fine clothing. On the flight, they were both quiet, and strained. Perhaps they were arguing…."

Colby slammed the folder shut, causing her to jerk in fright. "_Perhaps_?" he demanded loudly. "Did you hear something that causes you to say that?"

Her hand went to her delicate throat. "No! Señor, no! I only say that they do not look this happy, on flight. They rarely spoke at all – not to me; or to each other."

Colby tapped a finger on the closed file folder. "This man," he began menacingly, leaning forward a little, "is a very important consultant for the United States government. We are convinced that he has been framed, and the woman with him may have been killed. Anyone involved in that is looking at the attempted murder and extortion of a federal employee, at the very least. If the woman dies…. Our American prisons are overcrowded. We would probably let the Chilean government dispense justice." Colby was bluffing – but then, he had been bluffing all morning. Why stop now?

Elena blinked at him owlishly for a moment; then buried her face in her hands. He could barely make out her muffled voice when she spoke. "They lie to me!" she cried. "I do it for Marco; they said they would kill him. Now I am afraid they will kill us both!" She dropped her hands and let tears flow freely down her face as she looked back to Colby Granger pleadingly. "Please, señor, you must help me! Help me, and I will tell you all I know."

Colby did his best to maintain his composure.

Holy shit.

He was better than he thought.

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Charlie had vomited the candy bar in the hall outside the cellblock. Montero had refused to let him use the bathroom again, even though he claimed to be sick. The act of leaning over slightly and retching nearly caused him to pass out. His ribs protested every notch of movement, and his neck simply refused to bend in the manner to which he was accustomed. As a result, some of the vomit landed on the guard's uniform, as well.

Montero exclaimed angrily and thrust out a forearm, forcing Charlie back against the bars. His head hit with a solid _thunk_, he saw stars as his knees gave out, and he began to sink to the cracked concrete. A second guard stopped his fall with a grunt. _"There is only the nurse in the infirmary,"_ he panted in Montero's direction. _"The doctor has quit, again."_

Rubinov's dark face appeared at the bars, and he spoke with quiet intensity. "Give him to me," he ordered. "I will care for him here."

Montero started to object, more to the tone than the idea, but the face of El Lobo loomed behind the impassive Russian, and he knew there was clout behind the request. This could make the extraction difficult – El Lobo had several guards on his payroll, including himself. Without his cooperation, things could become very complicated. He knit his eyebrows together and bellowed to be heard in the control room. "OPEN 9!" He grabbed a fistful of jumpsuit and threw Charlie at Rubinov as soon as the cell door began to retract. "Take him, then! If he bothers me again, I will kill him, yes?" As Rubinov supported Charlie and led him away toward his bunk, Montero's eyes flickered toward El Lobo. "Señor. We must talk."

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Alan's mouth gaped in stunned shock. His wide eyes flickered to Don's, then back to the doctor's. "Absolutely not. You…you are insane, to suggest such a thing. I want her transferred back to L.A., immediately!" He looked at Don again, a little desperately. "Donny, can you call someone at U.C.L.A.?"

Don shifted uncomfortably in the small visitor's chair, and looked again at the papers the doctor had handed him. His voice shook when he spoke. "Dad, her doctor faxed her Health Care Directive. She asked for DNR in a situation like this…." His eyes shot to the impassive physician. "You said her parents were here?" He looked at Alan, adding, "Maybe we can talk to them…"

The doctor did not lack compassion, and he spoke gently to the two large men crammed in his tiny office. "Yes, they were here earlier. They have already indicated that they agree with her wishes, and have signed the paperwork."

Alan shook his angrily. "And what about Charlie – he gets no say in this? He's the person closest to her – you can't tell me he doesn't get a chance to help make this decision!"

The doctor sighed, and waved his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Her parents have signed…and you have no legal claim, I am afraid. I do you a courtesy to tell you as much as I have. Surely you understand that you cannot have her moved, or stop us from removing the respirator."

Alan half-stood in consternation, not even feeling Don's hand push him back into his chair. "Where are they? Let me speak to her parents, please!"

The doctor sighed. "I will give you their hotel number. You must take this up with them."

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Charlie lay on his bunk, facing the wall, and the cold seeped into him. It leeched into his bones, and stopped the flow of blood throughout his body. His eyes were closed, and he barely breathed. He no longer felt Rubinov staring at him, no longer heard the noise of the other prisoners, and no longer smelled the rancid and putrid cell in which he lay. She enveloped him, encased him totally. He could feel nothing but her, see nothing but her smile, hear nothing but her laughter, and smell nothing but her scent. Always light, always with a hint of vanilla; slightly musky and heady, when she lay in his arms.

He whispered, unaware that he spoke aloud. "Don't," he admonished her. "Don't come to me to say 'Good-bye'. Don't leave me. Please, God….Amita. My heart; my soul…don't leave."

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End Chapter 11


	12. Dancing or Standing Still?

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 12: Dancing or Standing Still?**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Don shut the hotel door softly, and turned down the hallway. Alan was meeting with Amita's parents, trying to persuade them to keep Amita on life support until Charlie at least had a chance to see her. Don had intended to stay for the conversation, but the subject, the grief in the room had suddenly overwhelmed him, and he wasn't contributing to the conversation anyway. His father was making a more eloquent pitch on Charlie's behalf than he ever could, and not only that, Amita's parents seemed to relate more to him as a fellow parent. Don had quietly excused himself, thinking that he could be doing something more constructive, and headed for the car.

As he sank into the driver's seat, he was still trying to figure out what that constructive something might be. His hands itched for his cell phone; he thought of calling Colby, but knew he shouldn't; there was no telling what he might interrupt and Colby had promised to call him as soon as he knew something. He thought also of calling Reyes to see if he'd had any luck at getting Charlie moved to house arrest, but there too, he would simply be a nuisance – Reyes would call as soon as he knew anything.

Instead he sat, and his mind wandered back to the interview room, and Charlie. Charlie, looking scared, in pain, and defenseless, in the handcuffs and yellow jumpsuit. Charlie, starving, devouring the candy bar; hope dawning in his face when Reyes spoke of getting him out on bail. Charlie, looking at their father as the terror and despair resurfaced in his eyes, when he realized that he was going back in. _Help me_, the eyes beseeched Alan, and Don stared helplessly back, as the bastard of a guard led his brother from the room, his slight shoulders slumped.

And over all of it, was a nagging sensation that he couldn't quite place, generated by something as nebulous as eye contact. Charlie wouldn't maintain eye contact with him – only with Alan. Was it accidental – merely a natural outcome of the way Charlie was facing the group? Or did it mean something else? Don shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering their argument, their harsh last words to each other. _'He's gotta know I'm here for him,_' he thought, desperately. _'You know that, right, Buddy?'_

Alan's first inclination after the interview had been to go to the warden, and demand an explanation for what was happening to his son, and to get him moved to a cell of his own. Reyes had argued against it – their hands were tied, he told Alan. If the warden was crooked too, they could put Charlie's life in jeopardy, if the warden found out that Charlie had talked. After years in law enforcement, Don knew only too well what could happen in a prison, especially one as corrupt as this one, and as much as he hated to, he had to agree with Reyes. There was nothing they could do, but pray that Charlie would be able to hang in there until they could get him out.

The horrible reality left Don's gut churning, his mind running like a rat in a cage. He chafed against every minute that passed – they needed to get Charlie out as soon as possible, before he was hurt further, before any other atrocities could be committed, before they disconnected Amita's life support…. His heart wrenched at the thought – thank God, Charlie didn't know how bad she really was. In his brother's current condition, Don was sure the news would literally kill him. '_Colby, please hurry,_' his tortured mind pleaded. '_C'mon man, we need you now.'_

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Colby stared at Elena, trying to calm his thumping heart. This was too good to be true. "Okay, calm down," he told the distraught young woman, speaking to himself as much as her. "Who is Marco?"

"My boyfriend," she replied in a shaky voice. "The cartel told me if I ever spoke of what I did for them; they would kill both of us."

"Cartel? What cartel?"

She looked at him with new fear, as if merely speaking the name terrified her. "Macedo."

Colby stared at her; then realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. The Macedo cartel was one of the most powerful cartels in Colombia – for that matter, in the world. Why in the hell had they targeted Charlie and Amita? He pushed a paper and pen toward her. "Start from the beginning. I want you to write down how you got involved with them, what you did for them, and what they asked you to do on this flight in particular. Once I have your deposition, we will work on getting Marco here, and both of you in a safe place."

She nodded, wiped away a tear, and began to write, and Colby's stomach twisted. He was playing with people's lives now, promising things that he might not be able to deliver, because this was un-official business. Somehow, he reasoned, they could maybe call in a marker with the NSA or DEA, considering that they were now dealing with the Macedo cartel. He would have to cross that bridge when they came to it.

He tried hard not to fidget while she wrote, but finally she was done, and he willed himself not to grab the paper, taking it matter-of-factly, his eyes scanning the page. It was certainly an admission that she had planted the drugs and spiked their drinks, which should be enough to get the charges against Charlie dropped. What it didn't answer was why she had been asked to do it. He rose to his feet, anxious to get out of there, to call Don, and didn't hear the door open behind him. He looked at Elena. "Why did they want you to do this? Did they tell you?"

Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, and he tensed as he heard Merrick's voice, filled with suppressed fury, behind him. "The question is; why did _you_ do this, Granger, when I specifically told you not to?"

Colby turned; his heart dropping. Merrick's face was as angry as his voice. "Look, sir, I'm sorry, but you have to listen to this – this is big."

"I have to do no such thing," barked Merrick. "You're over the line here, Agent. Your team is already down one partner with Eppes' PTO – your insubordination is personally intolerable to me, and has endangered your fellow Agents. I'm placing you on administrative probation, effective immediately!"

Colby started to feel anger of his own rising. "Look, if you'd let me explain for a minute…"

"What part of 'stay out of it' did you not understand?" Merrick interrupted, fuming. "You can give me an explanation, Granger, in a written report. Now hand over your service weapon, and get the hell out of here!"

Colby's jaw worked in frustration, and he grabbed Elena's arm with one hand, and fished out his gun with the other. He laid the piece on the table, and grabbed the deposition. "Come on," he said through clenched teeth to Elena, who had risen slowly, and was staring at the two of them, confusion on her face.

"Where in the hell do you think she's going?" demanded Merrick.

Colby looked at Elena. "You can come with me, or you can take your chances with him."

Elena looked back and forth between the two of them, and nodded at Colby. "I am going with you."

They pushed through the doorway, and Merrick yelled furiously at their retreating backs. "I hope you know what you're doing, Granger! I'd better have that report within the hour!"

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The shower was pure agony. Not so much from a physical sense, although Charlie found it extremely painful to raise his hands to his head. Any other time, he would have relished the chance to wash, to be clean, to rid himself of the stink of the place. No, the agony came from the panic that surged through him, when he realized that he would need to disrobe in front of twenty men, twenty sets of appraising eyes. He had been in communal showers before, at locker rooms, but after the night before, the situation took on a whole new meaning. It provoked an anxiety attack that almost crippled him; he nearly passed out as he walked on unsteady feet between them.

He somehow found himself at a shower head, and a strong arm reached over and turned it on for him. He glanced sideways to see Rubinov's powerful body, and immediately jerked his eyes away, as a fresh round of terror speared through him. The man was all muscle; threatening, imposing. Charlie knew with despair, that there was no way he could fight that off.

He somehow managed to make it through the ordeal, and back to his bunk, where he lay battling the pain in his neck and chest, facing the wall trembling with fear and hunger, and a chill that wouldn't seem to leave. He cringed slightly as he felt the dirty coat being laid over him, but when no other contact came, he took a deep shaky breath, and tried to will himself to relax. Any minute now, they would come and tell him that Reyes had gotten him moved to house arrest. Any minute now – he just had to hold on for a few moments longer.

El Lobo watched Rubinov with speculation, as the man laid Sanchez' coat over the gringo. It was fascinating; the assassin had never once seemed remotely interested in the fortunes of anyone else in the prison, and now he seemed enamored of the young man, to the point where he appeared to have lost his ability to reason. He murmured to the men next to him. "We are on laundry detail the day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Rubinov and the gringo do not need to know until the last moment – do not tell them. We will make sure that Rubinov is put on delivery."

Carlos frowned. Their cell had not been on laundry detail since El Lobo had come to power, it was considered beneath them. "Why laundry detail?"

El Lobo looked at them. "Montero set it up. They are taking the gringo. We are to allow it to happen, and when asked, we will have seen nothing. There will be payment in it for us."

"Who is taking him?" whispered Rene.

El Lobo glanced around, and his voice dropped even further. "Macedo." They stared back at him, and then at the young man on the bunk, apprehensively.

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Colby strode into the FBI offices, his face set. He had stashed Elena at his apartment, and called the airport. There was a flight leaving for Santiago that evening, and he had snagged one of the last remaining seats. He needed to get hold of Don, and could think of no more secure phone to call from than the FBI offices. Merrick's request for a report gave him the perfect excuse to be there.

He headed first for the scanner, and on his way, he passed David and Megan, who gave him questioning looks. He gave them a brief nod, and headed for the scanner, inserting the signed deposition. Seconds later, he felt their presence behind him, but he didn't turn.

"Well?" asked Megan.

"You probably shouldn't be talking to me," said Colby quietly, still facing the away from them. "I'm on administrative probation – you don't want Merrick to find out that you knew what I was doing."

David frowned. "How did _he_ find out?"

"I don't know," muttered Colby. "Someone at the airport must have called him – he showed up right in the middle of an interview." He turned and shot a quick glance around the office. "I've got something that'll help Charlie, but this looks bigger and nastier than we thought. I'm flying down there tonight. I figure I'm already off; I'll be more use down there. I'm going to file a report with Merrick, and I'm out of here."

Megan looked at him, concerned. "Bigger and nastier how?"

Colby stared back, his eyes steady, and shook his head. "Better just stay out of this. You guys will have enough on your hands running the office." He pushed past them, and headed for a conference room. Megan watched through the door as he bent over the computer on the conference room table and logged on, and then closed the door.

David quirked an eyebrow at her. "Are you satisfied with that?"

"Hell, no," murmured Megan. "Are you?"

Colby logged into his personal screen, and imported the scanned document. It showed up clearly, and he pulled the conference room phone toward him and dialed Don.

Don answered immediately. He was still sitting in the car, waiting for Alan. "Yeah, Colby, what do you have?"

Colby hunched slightly, and shifted in his chair. "I got one of the flight attendants to talk. She definitely planted the drugs and spiked their drinks. She signed a deposition. I've got it scanned in – I need you to get me his lawyer's email address so I can send it down."

Don breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Colby – damn – thank you. I can't tell you how much this means…"

Colby grinned wryly into the phone. "Yeah, well you can tell me in person, tomorrow. Merrick found out I was questioning them –I'm on administrative probation, so I'm going to fly down. I'll bring the original document."

Don's relief was replaced by dismay, and a cloud of guilt. "Shit – I'm sorry Colby – look, I'll take the hit for this – I'll tell him I told you to do it –"

"It wouldn't do any good, Don – he gave us all a direct order yesterday not to get involved, and I did it anyway."

"Colby, you should have told me that – I would have asked someone else, done something else."

"Who would you have asked, besides us?" Colby replied matter-of-factly. "Anyway, when Merrick reads my report, I have a feeling that he might think twice about the suspension."

"Why?"

"The flight attendant was working for Macedo, Don. The DEA at least will want this info – we might actually get some government help here." He chuckled wryly. "Hell, maybe even three governments; the Chilean and Colombian officials are gonna love this."

Don felt a cold feeling settle in the pit of his stomach. "Macedo? What in the hell does he have to do with Charlie and Amita?"

"That's the million dollar question," said Colby. "Look, get me that email address and call me back on this number, okay? I'm going to start working on this report." At Don's affirmative, he hung up, and turned to the computer, not realizing that the door was open just a crack. The click of the keys drowned out the slight sound of the door closing, as Megan pulled it shut, her face pensive.

End, Chapter 12


	13. There Are Snakes in this Grass

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 13: There Are Snakes in This Grass**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Alan and Don stared sadly, wearily at Amita through the glass window of the ICU unit. Alan was sure that things couldn't get much worse. Earlier that afternoon, things seemed to be going in their favor. He had convinced the Ramanujans to wait until Charlie was released to remove her from life support, and had come down to the car to find out that Colby had managed to obtain a deposition from a witness; evidence that should be enough to get the charges against Charlie dropped.

They had driven directly to Reyes' office; the lawyer had already sent the emailed deposition through to the prosecutor and was on the phone with him when they arrived. He waved them in, but as they took a seat they watched the excitement on his face turn to frustration. He rattled off a torrent of angry Spanish and then hung up with a sigh. The prosecutor would only accept the original document, Reyes told them, not a scanned version. They would have to wait for Colby to get there. The request for house arrest was also declined – they refused to process it, since it looked like Charlie would be out the next day, anyway. It meant that Charlie had to stay in for another night, and the better part of the next day.

With nothing to do but wait, they managed a half-hearted attempt at dinner, both of them wondering if Charlie was eating, their own food sticking in their throats. They then stopped at the hospital; Alan still clung to a faint flicker of hope that Amita would come out of this somehow, and felt the need to see her. Because they weren't family, they weren't allowed to do more than look through the glass, and that was where they were when Don heard a familiar voice behind him.

"How is she?"

He turned, and looked at the tall figure, a little surprised. "Marshall." Alan turned, and Don introduced them. "Dad, this is Marshall Penfield, he's a colleague of Charlie and Amita."

Penfield shook hands, his face arranged with the proper amount of concern. He had been a little nervous about meeting with them, but now that he was here, he had to admit, this fishing expedition gave him a little rush. He felt like a spy. "I drove in from the conference when I heard. I couldn't believe it – what's going on?"

Alan's face was grim. "Apparently someone planted drugs in Charlie's carry-on, and spiked their drinks with cocaine. Amita had a reaction to the combination of alcohol and cocaine – it doesn't look good, I'm afraid." He had tried to suppress the grief as he talked, but it got away from him, rising, contracting his throat. He swallowed hard and turned away as Penfield replied.

"My God, that's terrible." Penfield looked through the glass, trying to push down the cloud of guilt. It was worse, seeing her in person. That beautiful body, that magnificent mind, reduced to a vegetable. His hatred of Charlie rose through the remorse. This was Eppes' fault, he told himself, and the root of it started years ago. If Eppes had not stolen the limelight, completely eclipsing Penfield's work, not only in college, but in the years afterward, he wouldn't have had to resort to this. It was a pity that Amita had to pay too, but Eppes was only getting what he deserved. Arrogant little bastard.

He shook his head, and asked, in a voice dripping with concern. "How's Charlie?"

Don was shifting uncomfortably. Penfield's presence reminded him of his traitorous collaboration with the mathematician on the FBI course, and the guilt made him feel resentful toward the man. He tried to tamp down the feeling – that wasn't Penfield's fault, he admonished himself; it was his. He could hardly blame Penfield for wanting to do the course. "Not good," he admitted quietly.

"He might be released tomorrow, though," Alan added.

Penfield's heart gave an uncomfortable leap. "Really? That's great! What happened?"

"We really don't know for sure yet, Dad," murmured Don, but Alan went on, determined to hold to his one shred of good news.

"They have evidence that the drugs were planted – they need to wait for documentation, but they should get it tomorrow afternoon. The prosecutor said once he had it, he'd arrange to have the charges dropped."

Penfield managed to produce a brittle smile. _Shit. Just – shit._ His plans were starting crumble. "Wow, that's a tremendous relief. I knew it had to be a set up." He glanced once more at Amita, and stuck out his hand again. "Well, I need to be going. I was hoping to speak with Amita, but that appears to be impossible…It was nice to meet you again, Mr. Eppes. You probably don't remember – we met at Princeton when Charlie and I were undergrads." He shook Alan's hand and offered Don his card. "My cell phone number's on that – if you would keep me posted, I would really appreciate it. Pleased to help in any way I can."

With a nod, he escaped down the hallway, his thoughts whirling. He needed to regroup – to rethink this. After Eppes had done his job for the cartel, they were going to make sure he was dumped back on the streets of Santiago, arrested again, and charged with attempted escape. Eppes could hardly protest – he would have to admit that while he was out, he was working for a drug cartel, which would only cement his incarceration. Penfield had visions of him rotting in a Santiago prison, in disgrace, for the rest of his life.

Now, that plan was no longer viable – and the cartel's attempt to kidnap Eppes was in jeopardy. He needed to call them, to tell them to move up the abduction to occur before tomorrow afternoon. As for what they would do with Eppes after they were done – well, they couldn't release him again – he would be a free man, and would take his story back to the States.

Penfield decided he would leave it up to Macedo – the drug lord could keep Eppes for future work, or kill him, for all that Penfield cared. Penfield hadn't originally planned to have anyone killed, but he would soon have one death on his conscience – Amita's. What was one more, especially when it was the hated Eppes? As long as he was out of the picture.

He was free of the hospital now, outside, and he pulled out his cell phone, dialing his contact. "Rafe – Penfield here. We have a problem."

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Larry dropped his napkin on the table, grabbed his glass of white wine, and settled back into the chair. "I must say," he shared, pausing to sip at the wine, "I rather envy our Mr. Granger at the moment."

Megan exchanged a look with David and then smiled indulgently over the table's bud-vase centerpiece. "I'm sure you're about to elaborate on that statement in such a way that it begins to make sense," she intoned.

In spite of the situation, David chuckled into his beer. He glanced at Larry as he set the mug down next to a half-empty plate of roast beef. "Please. Although now that I think about it, I can understand the average human's great desire to throw something at Merrick."

A sad smile crossed Larry's face and he gripped the stem of the wine glass a little tighter. "Quite. But beyond that, I truly wish that I were on my way to Santiago. This entire ordeal is preposterous." His voice became indignant. "To arrest a man of Charles' ilk, and accuse him of such a thing! At least Colby is..._doing_ something!"

Megan regarded her plate and disinterestedly twirled spaghetti around her fork. "I know what you mean. I wish we could do more." She sighed. "But unfortunately, Merrick is right about this one --- this is not a Bureau case. This is between the DEA and the two governments involved, now."

Larry returned his wine to the table and protested. "Even so, my dear. Poor Alan must be beside himself -- and Don, too. If I were there with them, perhaps I could be of some assistance, in some small way." His frustration level grew. "I didn't intend to teach Summer Session at all, until the last moment. Surely Millie must have been prepared for my absence." He began to pout, a little. "Regardless, I believe I would like to go to Santiago."

Megan started to look a little worried, and David pushed his plate away with one hand and rubbed his bald head with the other. "Maybe you should give it a few days, Larry. Before Colby left for the airport, he said he got a confession out of one of the flight crew -- the drugs were planted. That's why he's on his way to Santiago -- to hand-deliver the proof." He tried to sound hopeful. "Charlie might get here before you could get there."

Larry frowned, turning the glass in deliberate circles on the table. "I sincerely hope that you are correct, and he is released from custody. However, until Amita can travel he will not return to L.A. I should be with my dear friend at a time like this; _both_ of my dear friends." He looked up at David suddenly, confusion apparent on his face. "Did Colby indicate why the drugs were planted? Was Charles a target?"

David returned his confused look for a moment, and then turned his head toward Megan. "We didn't have much time to talk. I just assumed Charlie was unlucky -- wrong place, wrong time. Do you think someone did this to him on purpose?"

Megan swallowed thickly. She had not shared what she had overheard with David. The name "Macedo" had chilled her to the bone and effectively paralyzed her. She had been trying to stall, hoping to hear from Don or Colby the next day. She wanted to mine more details. She continued her stalling tactics now. "What are the odds of him being randomly chosen, Larry?"

The professor sat up straighter in his chair. "Given his situation -- a highly-placed consultant for several United States government interests; the younger brother of an FBI agent; regarded by the whole of academia as one of our best and brightest -- I would have to say the odds weigh heavier on the side of premeditation. I could design an algorithm...it would go much faster, of course, were Charles here to help me..." He stopped and reddened, realizing what he had said.

David ignored the faux pas and leaned over the table, so that he could lower his voice and still be clearly heard. "Not to mention the attack in his office a few weeks ago. Everyone assumed that the student was the intended vic."

Megan gasped, and both men looked at her. "There were drugs found in his pack," she remembered. "Also cocaine. I am an _idiot_! Didn't Don say Gary Walker is working on this? David, we've got to talk to him."

David leaned back as at least partial comprehension flooded his face. "Holy shit. The kid had a previous drug record, but Don said he had been clean for years. It could have been another plant..."

Larry pushed back his chair noisily. "Charles was the intended victim," he said with certainty. "They never intended to kill him, just to plant the drugs. In the ensuing melee, someone grabbed the wrong backpack!" He glanced at his watch. "One of you must have Lieutenant Walker's after-hours contact information. Quickly -- I need more data."

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Montero stopped at the cell just before turn-in, and spoke quietly with El Lobo. "Plans have changed," he said. "Laundry detail has been moved to tomorrow morning, 4 a.m. Let your men know." El Lobo nodded, and drifted back toward his men, as Montero went to turn down the lights.

The lighting dimmed, and Charlie's heart sank with the falling luminosity. The lights in the block were never fully extinguished, but the dimming marked night, and with it, his hopes of getting out that day faded. It would be hours before daylight now, before he had a chance to leave. Even worse, the night brought with it the memory of the night before. He still couldn't seem to get rid of the chill that clutched him, and he curled in a ball on his bunk, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

El Lobo eyed Rubinov on the bunk next to him; the big man's eyes were glued to the gringo. The man had never exhibited a weakness of any kind, until now, and El Lobo thought it was a pity that the young man was being taken away – weaknesses were good, something to be exploited, and the young man's departure would mean a loss of leverage. Still, he could not resist baiting his new lieutenant. He spoke softly. "If you do not want him, Yuri, others do. Perhaps I should hand him to someone else."

Rubinov's head jerked around, and El Lobo smiled at the consternation in his face. "No," said Yuri. "He is mine." As if to prove it, he rose from his bunk and moved over to the gringo.

Charlie felt the weight on the mattress next to him, and his heart caught in his throat.

Rubinov heard the low moan of terror as he lay down next to the shaking man, pulling his blanket over both of them. He laid a comforting arm over him. Andre – Rubinov stopped himself -- the young man -- seemed so cold, so afraid. "Shh," he whispered. "I will not hurt you."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, his body taught with fear, waiting for the hands to start moving, groping. After several long moments, there was nothing – nothing but the weight of the arm over his shoulder, and he slowly opened his eyes. He lay still, scarcely daring to breathe, eyes staring at the block wall for what seemed an eternity, and his body slowly stopped trembling, warmed by the body next to him, and the extra blanket. He forced himself to stay awake, and was actually successful for two full hours, before exhaustion claimed him, and his eyes drifted shut against his will. In his dreams, he was home, a boy of five, terrified by a thunderstorm, and it was Don's arm that hung over him, protectively.

Rubinov lay there; he felt the young man's trembling cease with a sense of relief, but noted that his body remained stiff, tense. Finally, he felt the young man relax, and his breathing regulate. Moments later Rubinov was drifting off to sleep himself. He could feel the warmth of the sun and the smell the sweet scent of hay in the loft; it was summer in Georgian Russia, thirty-two years ago. He was twelve; he slept in the loft with his arm around six-year-old Andre, the breeze gently ruffling his brother's dark curls. It was a moment of innocence and light, of peace and happiness, realities long since faded, driven away by the poverty and hardship that led to desperation and the criminal acts that made him the man he was now. But for one shining moment in his dreams, he was human again, and a tear of happiness, unnoticed in slumber, crept down his hardened face.

End, Chapter 13


	14. Letting Go

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 14: Letting Go**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Rubinov was confused when the lights were turned up and guards began banging on the cell rails, demanding the men get up and report to work immediately. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the cot he had shared with Charlie all night and tried to catch El Lobo's eye. Work? The block was assigned to mechanics this week, and did not report until after breakfast. His sense of unease increased when El Lobo refused to meet his gaze. This was not right.The only place they could be going so early was the laundry -- why had they been reassigned, and when? Why did no one else seem surprised?

El Lobo's bitch, Rene, suddenly hovered over him, a self-important and knowing gleam in his eye. "I hope you didn't wear him out last night, Yuri. He must work today."

Rubinov glared and rose to his full height, towering over the smaller man. "He is not well," he protested.

El Lobo himself stepped between his lover and his first Lieutenant. "Yuri, we must all work. If you wish, I can ask Montero to send him to the infirmary..." He was bluffing, for many reasons. He wanted to make sure all suspicion was deflected from himself, first. The Russian could be unpredictable, and always physically intimidating. If he suspected El Lobo had known in advance about the gringo's kidnapping, he might retaliate by hurting Rene. Secondly, he was betting Rubinov would rather have his little American in sight, rather than holed away in an infirmary from which few returned. Yuri scowled at him, opened his mouth as if to speak again, but said nothing.

Finally he leaned over and shook Charlie's shoulder. "Come!" he ordered, uneasiness making his voice rough. "Arise! We must work."

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"_What?!_" Colby's exclamation was so loud over the steady hum of noise in the terminal's food court, that a TSA security officer passing by skidded to a halt and pulled a 180, zeroing in on Granger. The Agent saw her coming, and held up a hand both in supplication and warning. By the time she got close enough to focus, he had lowered his voice considerably and abandoned his lunch on the table to stand and pull back his jacket, exposing the federal badge clipped to his belt. She raised an eyebrow and hesitated. Colby shot her a grin and wandered away from the bustle of the food court, toward the center of the terminal. He was almost whispering to Don, now. "What d'ya mean, they won't accept the scan? That's crazy -- it's from the friggin' FBI, for Pete's sake! I'm still hours away, Don! This layover in Atlanta is almost four hours...we've got to get him out of there!"

Don sighed in his ear. "Don't you think I tried, Granger? You didn't see the kid — he's a mess. I don't even want to think about who's been doing what to him, in there."

Colby growled into his cell. "It's Macedo, Don. The cartel must own somebody in the prosecutor's office." He shoved one hand in the pocket of his jeans and turned in a slow circle in the middle of the concourse, oblivious to the dozens of people who streamed past. "Why would an organization this big target your brother, anyway? And what about Amita?"

"I'm thinking she was a 'bystander' vic -- wrong place, wrong time." There was a pause; then Don spoke again, his voice low with grief. "She's really bad, Colby. My Dad actually talked her parents into not pulling the plug on her until Charlie gets a chance to say good-bye. Shit, he has no idea it's this bad."

Colby grunted and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, not opening them again until they were safely shaded under the hand that rubbed his brow. "Damn. Shit, Don, I'm sorry. Damn." More silence before he spoke again, changing the subject. "Listen, you think I should call Walker? Do you think this is connected to the attack in Charlie's office?"

Don moaned, almost as if he was in pain. "I'm worthless here, Granger -- I didn't even think of that. The timing is definitely too convenient...That woman, the flight attendant, did she give you a contact?"

Colby scrambled for the notebook in his pocket and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I got it here...wait...here. 'Rafe' is all I got. She says he always provided the instructions, via her cell, and sometimes left her money in a locker at the airport."

Don's voice had taken on a hard, team-leader edge. "Have Walker search all the high-level cartel operatives for that name. No matter how many 'Rafes' he finds, he can search the cell phone records and find a contact with your woman. The DEA should be able to help him if he needs some clout; asshole Merrick -- wish I had David and Megan working on this."

"I know what you mean," Colby grimaced. "I've been wishing we had Charlie working on this one, myself. Can you get back in to see him? Maybe he can give us something now that we know Macedo is involved."

"I don't think so," Don admitted reluctantly. "The whole place is dirty. The lawyer had to sneak him a code the other day so he could talk in front of the guard. Macedo has ears there, and we don't want to tip our hand."

"You're right," agreed Colby. "We don't want to increase the danger factor until we get Charlie out of there, and safe."

Don allowed himself a brief smile. Colby's use of the plural personal pronoun did not go unnoticed, and he appreciated the support of his friend and colleague more than he was comfortable admitting. Nothing else Colby had said escaped him either, though, and when he spoke his voice almost broke. "Just hurry, Colby. Hurry."

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Walter Merrick put down Granger's report and rubbed his face with a sigh. "Shit."

The flight attendant's testimony made it clear that not only was this a set-up, there was a tie-in to one of the world's most notorious drug cartels. It would, without a doubt, reverse the official U.S. position to avoid this case; it was no longer merely an embarrassing incident for one of its more esteemed citizens; it was a case with national security implications. He wasn't sure which thought disturbed him more – the fact that an important consultant, who he happened to know personally, had been framed; or the fact that he was going to have to admit to Granger, of all people, that he should have listened to him to begin with.

He could think of a number of people that needed to know about this – his director, the head of the DEA, probably the NSA, since Charlie had done so much work for them. He also needed to find out where Granger had housed the flight attendant – there was no doubt that she should be in witness protection. He shook his head, wondering where to begin. Might as well start with his own organization. He picked up the phone, and dialed his director.

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Warden Torres' brother-in-law was a rich man. Lorenzo Santito owned a chain of laundry establishments, centered mostly within the city of Santiago. As he approached the age of 50 however, and more of his children came to work for him, he began to think of branching out. After all, he had several lucrative government contracts – aside from the walk-in trade – and virtually no overhead. The free labor of the inmates at his brother-in-law's prison covered that for him, very well. His major expense was the fleet of trucks, and the men to drive them. Several times daily, pounds of freshly laundered and folded linens and clothing were picked up at the prison and delivered to his various laundries. Even employing the drivers was not a huge expense. Often his brother-in-law provided them. Lorenzo simply counted his money, and did not ask questions.

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"I can't imagine how difficult this is for you," murmured Alan. "Thank you – for arranging for me to see her, and for waiting for Charlie to be released."

Sarika Ramanujan smiled tremulously as she looked through the window at her husband, who was holding her only daughter's limp and unresponsive hand. "I appreciate what your family means to my Amita," she answered softly. "She speaks of little else…her work, some – mostly to please her father, I think, so he does not begin to regret the money he put into her education. But mostly 'Charlie'." She smiled and looked up at Alan. "The Doctor and I are not ignorant – we 'Googled' your son, you know. A remarkable gift. What a challenge he must have been."

Alan smiled back, genuinely, and arched an eyebrow. "You have no idea. And I'm not sure I'm ready to relegate that to the past tense – Charlie is still a challenge!" His face sobered. "Amita has been very good for him. She can keep up with his mind, and anchors his heart. He's been happy, with her."

Sarika reached up to brush at an eye, turning back to the window. "That is nice to hear. The Doctor is so busy, but we hoped to get to L.A. later this year, perhaps for the holidays. We very much wanted to meet your son." Her voice moved from wistful to hard, raising a notch in the quiet hospital corridor. "You must find out who does this horrible thing to our children, Alan Eppes. The horrors your son has no doubt endured…" She dropped to a whisper. "…and they have killed my baby." She looked back up at him a little frantically. "Why? For what purpose does she die? Who dares to say that this world is better without her? Who does not understand that to shut her eyes brings down the sun?" A half-wail, half-sob escaped her then, and she looked away, shoulders shaking.

Alan held back tears of his own with effort, gently drawing her head to his chest and wrapping solid arms around her shoulders. He watched another father through the glass, felt a mother's heartbreak soak into his sweater, and promised them what he could. "We will make them pay," he murmured comfortingly above her head. "As God is in His heaven, we will make them pay."

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Yuri Rubinov was not sure he remembered how to run – he had not done such a thing in years – but he hurried through the bowels of the prison as fast as the guards would let him with his empty laundry cart. He waited impatiently for doors to be opened, and passages to be cleared, and grew more uneasy with each second that he was away from Charlie. The smaller man could barely move his neck, this morning, and his arms were leaden.Yuri had used his newly-claimed status to garner Charlie an assignment in the folding room.Then, he had tried to stay close. He was transporting huge carts from the bank of dryers to the men who folded – all of them weak, in some way, several of them who belonged, as Charlie did, in a decent infirmary. Rubinov would stay and help them as long as he dared, ignoring several summons from guards and cellmates, before he would go back to his assigned duty.

He must have pushed too far. The last time he pushed the empty cart back, Montero had grabbed it from him and indicated one farther down the row, filled to the brim with folded towels and sheets. "To the infirmary!" he ordered, and Rubinov protested.

"Rene is on delivery. He will be back, soon!"

Montero sneered and backhanded Yuri across the face, something he would not have the courage to do without the guns of three other guards in close proximity. He straddled his legs wide and planted his hands on his hips. "Your useless whore has put us behind schedule! The infirmary has sent word, and must have their delivery now. If you wish, I will beat the gringo once more and send them a patient, instead."

Rubinov leveled his gaze at Montero, and the guard swallowed convulsively, suddenly glad of El Lobo's protection. He crossed him arms defensively over his chest, feeling a sudden chill. It wasn't as if the Russian was here for a traffic violation – Montero had read his file, and was certain this man would gladly and painfully kill him. Thank _Dios_ El Lobo had thought to get him out of the area, when the gringo was taken.

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Yuri rounded the last corner and pushed the empty cart into the folding room, dark eyes searching for the curly head. His sense of dread grew when he did not see Charlie. _"__Donde__?"_ he demanded loudly. _"__Donde esta mi hermano__?" _Most of the men in the room refused to even look up at the sound of his voice – another sign that something was very wrong. Finally, Cristobel glanced quickly at him; then let his eyes flicker toward the landing dock, where the Santito trucks were loaded with the laundry that went back to town. Rubinov narrowed his eyes and followed his gaze. Several Santito drivers were struggling with something at the back of one of the trucks. Like a bull he bellowed, pushing aside the weak and injured folders in his hurry to get to the loading dock.

He was almost there when El Lobo stepped out of a shadow and grabbed his right arm. Nearly as big as Yuri was, and definitely as strong, El Lobo had no difficulty halting his progress. "Leave it alone, Yuri," he hissed in his ear. "The gringo is alive, only unconscious."

Rubinov growled and tried to shake the steel grip on his arm. "No!" Over El Lobo's head, he caught sight of a pillowcase descending over a mound of dark curls. He managed to pull El Lobo a few inches closer to the landing dock, and the other man resorted to using both hands to hold him back.

"They will not kill him, Yuri. Macedo wants him. He must be delivered in good condition. Return to your original assignment, quickly. Montero and another guard approach. I will not be able to stop them, should they decide to discipline you! Do not make me regret letting Sanchez go."

Rubinov's dark eyes flashed in anger and despair as he heard the click of the guards' shoes on the concrete. He did not fear Montero and his men – but the name of Macedo had done its work. Yuri understood that the cartel was powerful and far-reaching, and he knew that to cross Macedo was to sign his own death warrant. He watched, frozen with indecision, as the Santito drivers tossed their bundle into the back of the truck. "Andre," he moaned. "Andre, I am sorry."

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End, Chapter 14


	15. Russian Revelations

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 15: Russian Revelations**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Colby stepped out through the Santiago airport security area, an immediately spotted Don, who was striding toward him. He looked agitated, haggard, and Colby gave him a sharp glance as he approached.

Don grabbed his arm and turned him toward the exit, without as much as a greeting. "We need to hurry. The prosecutor said he would meet us at the prison. As soon as he gets the documentation, he can drop the charges, and they can let us in on the investigation. The Santiago police are already there interviewing prisoners. Merrick already called while you were en route – they've got DEA and Columbian law enforcement on the way down, but he's cleared us to start in on this."

The words spilled out in a torrent, and Colby stopped dead; and grabbed Don's arm, trying to halt the flow. "Wait, stop. Why interviewing the prisoners? What's going on?"

Don looked back at him, and Colby could see the deep fear in his eyes. "They called us from the prison this morning. Charlie's missing."

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Marshall Penfield stepped out of the last presentation of the day, and stretched a little. The conference was excellent, although he'd had a hard time keeping his mind on it for a while. He had gotten a phone call first thing that morning, and was elated to find that the kidnapping had gone off without a hitch. That bastard Eppes was now traveling north through South America, on his way to Colombia. His only regret was that he hadn't had a chance to visit the prison and thoroughly rub Charlie's face in his sorry predicament.

Ah, well, one more day of LACOST, and then he had some free time. He had taken the whole next week off, and was now wondering how to spend the nice deposit in his bank account, his partial payment from Macedo. And more would be coming once they got what they wanted from Eppes. Maybe he'd fly over to Rio, and watch micro bikinis on the beach for a few days.

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Lieutenant Espinoza sat waiting for the next prisoner to be interviewed, and shot a wary glance to his left. The two American agents were simmering with barely contained frustration, and one of them, the brother of the missing man, seemed ready to explode. As soon as the prosecutor received the deposition from the man named Granger, charges had been officially dropped against Dr. Eppes, which enabled the Chilean government to allow the Americans into the investigation. In the meantime, Lieutenant Espinoza had set up interviews at the prison to look into the professor's disappearance.

It had all taken some time; Agent Granger hadn't arrived until late afternoon, and although the paperwork was begun immediately, they hadn't gotten clearance to the prison until early evening. Espinoza had already started interviewing some of the men that had been in the folding area, where the missing man had been working. They were a pathetic bunch, all of them crippled in some way, and none of them had seen a thing, or so they maintained. Eppes and Granger had shown up just as Espinoza had started to interview the other inmates in the professor's cell.

Eppes was impatient from the start, and the outcome of the interviews so far had done nothing to alleviate that. El Lobo and his men all had the same story; they had gone to do laundry detail that morning. No one had seen the gringo disappear. El Lobo had gone so far as to speculate that the man had escaped in the back of the laundry truck. They had seen no else but the truck driver who picked up the laundry, and the guard. The guard, Montero, had the same story – he did not realize the prisoner was gone until he lined up the men to return to their cells.

They were now waiting behind the scarred table, under the harsh glow of a bare light bulb, for the next prisoner to come in, a man named Acosta. Colby shot a tentative look at Don, who was up, pacing behind his chair. "We keep going over just the events of this morning. You thought that maybe Charlie was assaulted before this -,"

"Not maybe," snapped Don. "He was."

Colby spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture, ignoring the combative tone. "Right, so what I'm thinking is; we should question them about what happened over the last few days. Maybe someone had it in for him…" His voice trailed off at the look on Don's face, as the implications of what he was saying hit him. The thought hung out there, unspoken, ominous – the possibility that someone had killed Charlie and the prison had covered up the crime.

Don stared at him, stricken; then ran a hand over his face, trying to recover his composure. "No, you're right," he said. His voice sounded strained. "We should be trying to find out who would have had motive…"

Colby swallowed hard and wrenched his eyes away from Don's face, as the door opened, and a guard ushered Acosta in the room. The man was only of medium height, but powerful looking; impressive biceps rippled under the prison garb. He approached the table with an insolent swagger, and sat.

Espinoza glanced at the paperwork in front of him. "This one speaks English." He raised his eyes. "Alejandro Acosta?"

"Si," sneered the man.

"English, please," said Espinoza curtly.

Don leaned forward, arms braced on the table, studying the man. He had seen the attitude before – too much bravado, too much arrogance. More often than not, it meant the suspect was afraid. Acosta shot him a quick glance as Don's face came closer to his, and Don saw trepidation in it. He leaned closer and spoke softly, menacingly. "Did you beat him up?"

Acosta stared, taken aback. The others had said nothing about this line of questioning – El Lobo had told him they were only asking about the laundry detail. He recovered quickly, slouching in his chair. "Who?"

"Don't play stupid," snapped Colby. "Dr. Eppes. We know he was assaulted. Who did it?"

Acosta licked his lips, a quick flick of the tongue, like a snake. "I didn't know he was beat up," he said, spreading his hands in deprecation. Don was still leaning over the table, his face still uncomfortably close, and Acosta shifted in his chair. That one had hate in his eyes, he thought to himself.

"I think you did it," said Don, his voice still soft, coming slowly around the table toward him. He grabbed Acosta's wrist suddenly, with a lightening move, and held up the hand, examining the bruised and cut knuckles. Don jerked the wrist suddenly, causing Acosta to backhand himself in the face with his own hand, and he flinched.

Acosta was sweating, staring at him. The man was possessed, he was sure of it. He stared back with fascinated terror at the man's eyes, which bored into his.

Don released his hold suddenly and grabbed him by the jumpsuit, pulling Acosta's face even closer. "And how about the rape?" he hissed. "Did you do that too?"

Colby stared, stunned. Holy shit, rape? No one had said anything about that. "Oh, man," he whispered softly to himself, even as he tensed, readied himself to pull Don off.

Acosta's mind whirled. One of the men must have talked – there was no way for the police to know, otherwise. He searched for something to give them, without giving too much away, something he could point to later, to claim he cooperated. "It wasn't me," he stammered. "I hit him, okay, with some of the others – he wasn't behaving. But no sex – El Lobo gave him to someone else."

There was a dead silence in the room as the men stared at him, and the man grasping his jumpsuit slowly let his hold slacken. Acosta pulled away, and rubbed his arm, still smarting from the man's grip.

Don backed away slowly, shock derailing his thoughts. Charlie had been _given _to someone, like an animal, a piece of meat? A sudden image rose in his mind of his brother, with his innocent, slightly loopy smile, and bile rose in his throat.

Acosta breathed a sigh of relief as the American backed off, but it was short-lived, because the other man, the powerful-looking one, was now rising with fury in his eyes. "Who?" he rasped. "Who was he given to?"

Acosta stared at him and then looked at the door nervously, as if he was afraid someone was listening. He looked back at Colby. "Rubinov," he whispered. "The Russian."

The air was charged with tension; Espinoza glanced at the two agents, and decided to change the track of the questioning. "What happened in the laundry room this morning?"

Acosta relaxed visibly. Now they were in safer territory. He knew what to say. "I do not know. We were spread out, sorting sheets and towels. There were sheets hanging on the clotheslines, we could not see the whole room. He was working closest to the outside door. When we lined up to go, he was not there."

Espinoza shot the men another glance. Eppes had placed an arm on the wall, and was leaning on it, his head down, so he turned his gaze to Colby, who nodded. Espinoza stood and went to the door, holding it open for Acosta, turning him over to the guard outside. "We're done with him. Bring in Rubinov," he said quietly.

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Charlie stirred, and a rush of air, an exhalation of pain, left him. He was vaguely aware of a vibration, the movement of a vehicle, the hum of tires on the road. He was strangely immobile, and as his eyes opened and awareness slowly seeped into the edges of his consciousness, he discovered the reason for that. He was lying on the floor of a van, with his arms bound behind him, and his feet bound together. As the sedative receded, he could feel his neck and his chest, both aching fiercely. He heard voices, and his eyes shifted groggily upward, trying to decipher what they were saying. Spanish, he thought dimly. _No habla Español_

Rafe Muñoz looked at his man, sitting across from him in the darkened delivery van. Once away from the prison, they had transferred the prisoner from the laundry truck into the van, and were now several hours up the South American coastline. "Give him another dose of the sedative. We have many hours to go, and borders to cross. We need him quiet."

The man nodded, and Charlie grunted as he felt hands turn him, and the stick of a needle in his arm. Seconds later, blackness descended again.

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Rubinov entered the room slowly. There were three men waiting for him, one looked like a Chilean police lieutenant, and the others were undoubtedly the Americans agents about which the other prisoners had spoken. One of them, a well-built man with sandy hair, sat at the table next to the lieutenant, his face grim. The other had to be the brother. He had dark hair, and eyes that glittered with some nameless emotion. He stood in the corner, silently, the eyes like dark, polished stone.

Rubinov took a chair. He was still trying to decide what to say to their questions. The will to save Andre – the young man – warred with his fear of Macedo.

"Yuri Rubinov," stated Espinoza. "He speaks English."

Don stared at the man as he entered, his gut churning. Rubinov was big, imposing, easily six foot three and bulging with muscle. His craggy face was set with dark, merciless eyes. Charlie's owner. With a supreme effort, Don unclenched his fists.

Colby took the lead. "You are aware that we are investigating the disappearance of Dr. Charles Eppes."

Rubinov had heard the young man's real name for the first time that morning. He hadn't realized he was a doctor. He sat for a moment, digesting that fact, and then nodded. Somehow, it didn't make a difference. He still thought of him as Andre.

"We need to know who may have had it in for him. Dr. Eppes had been assaulted, at least twice. We want to know who did it."

Rubinov's eyebrows raised in surprise. He knew that Montero was present during the young man's visit with his family. If the doctor had talked, Montero would have had him killed. But if he hadn't talked, who had? How would they know this? He glanced at the man in the corner; Rubinov wasn't easily frightened, but he felt warning flags go up as he glanced at the dark-haired agent. The man's fists were clenched again, and he was beginning to pace, his dark eyes flashing.

Colby watched Rubinov's face, saw the hesitation. '_He knows something_,' he thought.

Rubinov spoke slowly. His English was decidedly rusty – he usually spoke in Spanish, and thought in Russian. On top of that, he had to choose his words carefully. If he fingered El Lobo's men, he would be dead before even Macedo could get to him. "I did not see anything, but if it happen, it would have been in cell."

Colby had to listen intently; the man's English was heavily accented. _It would have been in the cell_…the man was trying to give them a hint, without saying anything. He was concentrating so hard, he was unprepared for Don's sudden lunge around the end of the table.

Rubinov saw him coming, and rose, backing away, knocking the chair from behind him. Don grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and his momentum carried them both across the room. Rubinov's back slammed into the wall.

"You damn well saw something," yelled Don, his face contorted with fury. "We know you raped him, you sick son-of-a-bitch!"

Rubinov wasn't handcuffed; the room they were meeting in was inside the security area so it wasn't thought necessary. He didn't fight back, however; he raised his hands, and the controlled expression vanished, replaced by agony. "NO! I did not, I would not -,"

Colby and Espinoza were up by now, and pulling Don away. Espinoza wrestled Don toward the door, his eyes flashing with anger. "You will step outside, agent, or I will pull you off the investigation!" Don stopped struggling, but directed a look of hatred at Rubinov, and Espinoza took his arm firmly and guided him outside.

Rubinov watched him go, and when he looked back at the agent in front of him, he was confronted with a pair of icy blue eyes. Colby spoke, his voice ominously quiet. "Okay, it's you and me now, asshole. No Chilean police. Tell me what you know, and it stays with Charlie's brother and me. No one knows it came from you."

Rubinov stared back, his mind whirling with indecision. He glanced back through the small viewing window in the doorway; he could see the brother in the hallway, his hand to his forehead, his head bowed, and felt a flash of sympathy for the man. He looked back at Colby. "I did not rape him."

Colby frowned. "Then why does Agent Eppes think you did?"

Rubinov shook his head. "Sanchez try it, but I pull him off. El Lobo thought I want Andre, and gave him to me. I only pretend I want Andre, to help him. No one would touch him if he belong to me."

Colby frowned in confusion. "Who in the hell's Andre?"

Rubinov winced visibly. "My brother. The young man, the doctor, he remind me of my brother."

Colby studied him for a minute. The man seemed genuinely distressed. He moved back and indicated the chairs, and they sat. Colby looked at his notes and frowned. "We didn't interview anyone named Sanchez. Who is that?"

"One of El Lobo's men. He is dead." Rubinov's eyes flashed, he shot a look at the door again, and then he leaned forward whispering. "I kill him, when he try to take the doctor." He straightened again. "Sanchez try to rape him two nights ago. They struggle, and I pull Sanchez off. The doctor was," he searched for the word, "– knock out – he could not fight him. I break Sanchez' neck to keep him away."

The words were matter-of-fact, and the hair rose on the back of Colby's neck. Thank God, Charlie had not ended up on this man's bad side. His words, though, brought a measure of relief. Granted, it had to be traumatic for Charlie to be sexually assaulted, but at least the act hadn't been completed. Although, from what Rubinov had just told him; Charlie might not even realize that. Colby's gut clenched as a picture of what had transpired formed in his mind. Either way, he was sure; it had to be devastating for Charlie. "What happened this morning?"

Rubinov shot another glance at the door. This time Colby picked up genuine fear in the man's eyes. "Look," said Colby. "I won't pass on what you tell me until after we leave here. We won't say it came from you. Agent Eppes and I will say we got it from an anonymous source."

Rubinov glanced at the hallway. He could still see the one called Eppes through the viewing window, with his head down, listening to Espinoza. "How do you know he will agree?"

Colby's voice was firm. "When he hears what you did for his brother, he'll agree. Do you want to help the doctor, or not?"

Rubinov looked back at him. When he spoke his voice was low, and his eyes were troubled. "Some men took him this morning. I get back from delivering laundry to infirmary, and he was knock out again. They put him in laundry truck. They told us do not talk."

Colby's eyes narrowed. "Who did it? Who took him?"

Rubinov raised his eyes, and Colby could see the fear in them, as he continued in a whisper. "It was Macedo."

End, Chapter 15


	16. 5Star Resort

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 16: 5-Star Resort**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Hector Macedo sipped his morning espresso, and watched the approaching van through the office window. The complex was beautiful, although he did not spend much time here. It was well outside Bogotá, where he normally resided, near the small town of San Martin. The complex itself was a veritable fortress, surrounded by high walls and patrolling guards, and was out in the countryside, accessible from the main highway only by a narrow, winding gravel road that stretched for three, easily-surveyed miles. Macedo flew in when he visited; the complex had its own airstrip and helicopter pad.

It was home to some of his staff, particularly those who planned drug routes, and developed plans for laundering money. The office he was in was fairly large, and housed a bank of secure computers. No drug processing happened here; this complex was well-known and had been visited on more than one occasion by Colombian militia, doing routine checks. The visits were more or less a formality; something the government could publicize to show they were taking action against the cartels. They did, in fact, take a hard line; the problem was that they could never come up with evidence. Macedo kept his cocaine processing operations very secret, and moved them often, from one jungle location to another. The government visits to the complex never turned up anything; other than harmless information on his front businesses.

It was the U.S. government, and its strict laws on money laundering, that gave him trouble. They had found it easier to track the movement of money than it was to track the movement of drugs, and the laws passed in the 1990s gave them the clout to crack down on operations such as his, even in remote countries. Until recently, however, his men had been able to thwart their relatively unsophisticated methods of tracking by funneling small amounts of money through Macedo's many holdings in the U.S. – hundreds of small businesses and non-profit organizations ordinarily below the radar of the DEA. In the last year, things had changed. The DEA had contracted consultants to develop complex algorithms that could track the small, routine transactions across the hundreds of smaller businesses, and pick out suspected activity. It had effectively stopped the illegal flow of money – and Macedo's empire had ground to a halt. The situation needed to be changed – immediately.

The obvious solution was to fight fire with fire – hire consultants to develop counter-algorithms that could foil the ones the U.S. government put in place. Macedo's attempts to do that had so far been unsuccessful. His own people, although good, did not possess that level of expertise, and the two consultants who had tried had also failed. One of them, the American, Penfield, at least knew enough to understand how the government's programming ought to work, but the complexity of it was so mind-blowing that he hadn't been able to develop the counter algorithms that would deal with all it – at least not in the timeframe that Macedo needed. Penfield projected it would take him two years worth of work to do that. It was then that he proposed a plan to get them one of the consultants who had actually developed the U.S. system – an idea that Macedo had eagerly adopted. The man, Eppes, was actually a colleague of Penfield's. It had been a ridiculously easy task to seize him from the Santiago prison.

Macedo watched as the van was waved through the gates, and came to a halt in front of the main building. And now that consultant was here – and none too soon. He took another sip of espresso, and watched with interest, as a slight man in a prison jumpsuit exited the van on unsteady legs, his hands bound behind him, and looked around with barely concealed bewilderment.

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Lieutenant Gary Walker strode off the elevators into the FBI bullpen, and made a beeline toward Megan Reeves, who happened to be standing next to David Sinclair's desk. Just the two he needed to talk to. She didn't see him coming, and he didn't speak until he was right behind her. "Reeves." She turned. "Sinclair." He spoke their names by way of greeting.

Megan's brow furrowed slightly, but she covered it immediately with a professional smile. "Lieutenant Walker. What can we do for you?"

"I could use some help," Walker admitted. Asking for help was not something that came naturally or easily to the gruff LAPD officer. It was all the more difficult today because he had blown these people off not quite 24 hours ago. "Since you guys called me, all hell's broken loose on the Eppes thing, and I've got the DEA breathing down my neck. Don Eppes called me yesterday, and asked me to dig up cell phone records on anyone named Rafe that might be associated with the Macedo cartel. Then later that afternoon, the DEA calls; apparently they found out we were working on it, and wanted us to hurry it along. The problem is; we don't have access to all of the databases you guys do. I was wondering if you guys could run the name through the federal databases, and see what you come up with."

Megan glanced at David, with a hint of guilt and confusion. When had the government gotten involved in this? Someone high up must have bought into the Macedo connection she had overheard Colby talking about. She turned back to Walker, genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Gary, we've been given orders not to work on this…"

"Which are being rescinded now." Merrick's gruff voice came from behind them. They turned to look at him in surprise, as he continued. "The situation has changed. We are now dealing with the kidnapping of a government consultant, and a known connection to the Macedo cartel."

"Kidnapping!" exclaimed Megan. "Charlie?" She exchanged a look of consternation with David.

Merrick nodded, gravely. "He was taken from the prison yesterday morning. We found out last night that it was carried out by the Macedo cartel. The question is, why? Lieutenant Walker is right, we need to see what the connection is between Dr. Eppes and the cartel – and the only lead we have right now is a man named Rafe." He looked at Walker. "We can take this over, Gary. I'll let the DEA know we've got it now."

Walker nodded with relief. "Thanks. I'll send you what we've checked so far."

David frowned. "Without a way to filter the data, this is going to take a while."

Merrick looked at them. "Maybe you can get some help from one of Charlie's colleagues – what about that Fleinhardt guy?"

He looked right at Megan as he said it, and she fought down the blush that rose to her cheeks. Did Merrick know they were dating? "That might be difficult," she said evenly. "He's on his way down to Santiago right now. He left yesterday – he won't get there until around noon."

Merrick frowned. "All right, get some help from the other agents and start collecting data." He offered each of the agents a file folder. "This is a copy of Granger's report. When we locate the correct 'Rafe', we'll know it by cross-referencing to Elena Barrita's cell. Time is of the essence on this, so call Fleinhardt when he lands and see if he can come up with something to make this go faster. We can hook him in through the Santiago police headquarters." He turned, and Walker went with him, with a nod at the agents.

David watched them go, his eyes on Merrick. "You weren't here yet, but I remember the first case Charlie worked. It was a pretty tough sell, to persuade Merrick that math could help us."

Megan's eyes followed the A.D. as he stepped on the elevator. "Considering the fact that he just directed us to use a consultant as if it's a forgone conclusion, I'd say he's been convinced."

David smiled. "Charlie has a tendency to do that to people." Megan smiled back at him, but their looks faded, as the grim reality of the situation returned.

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Charlie, head fuzzy and clogged, limbs uncooperative, staggered as he was led into the main house. He shook his head as he looked around the estate, confused. It looked like a 5-star resort – but what kind of resort was patrolled by armed gunmen? And how did the prison laundry turn into this? He would have been convinced he was dreaming, if the small headshake hadn't sent shockwaves of pain through his neck and shoulders. He staggered again, and was taken by the arm, steered until he was standing in an ornate bathroom that he doubted he could have dreamed, anyway. Even in all his travels, he had never encountered anything like the gold fixtures, or the large marble walk-in shower. He stared straight ahead, dumbly, as a sub-machine gun was tapped on a stack of clothing and towels that sat on the marble countertop. "You clean self, now," said someone in broken English. Charlie swayed a little and closed his eyes, snapping them open again when the grip on his arm tightened. "You clean, now," the voice repeated, a little more insistent. "Señor Macedo requires respect."

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Yesterday, Alan had believed that things could not get any worse.

Now, he knew that they could.

Colby had finally arrived with the evidence to get Charlie out of prison – but there was no one to release. Don, almost beside himself with worry and anger, had informed Alan that one of the world's leading drug cartels was behind the frame in the first place, and that they had arranged for Charlie to be taken from the prison. It was a further testament to his eldest's consternation when he lost the ability to edit the information he gave his father. "Our source is the guy who stopped the sexual assault," he had said, pacing the hotel room and running his hand through his short-cropped hair, "So I'm pretty sure it's good intel."

Alan had grunted as if hit in the stomach and would have crumpled to the floor without Colby's steadying hand on his arm. "_Sexual assault_?" he had croaked, and Don had whirled around to look at him in confusion.

"Dad? Who told you about that?"

And so Alan had eventually heard the whole sordid story, and subsequently spent the rest of the night staring woefully out the hotel room window at the Santiago skyline, his heavy heart resting on the slab of terrified ice in his chest.

The morning light had not made things look any brighter. Summoned to the hospital by Dr. and Mrs. Ramanujan, he was horrified to hear that they were having second thoughts about waiting for Charlie. "We have seen the news reports," explained Sarika, who stood in the corridor with him once more. "We are very sorry that your son has been taken…but now that we know his presence is not imminent, we are reluctant to prolong the inevitable."

Alan frowned and shook his head, reaching out a hand to touch her elbow lightly. "Oh, please, Mrs. Ramanujan, don't reconsider now! Charlie's brother and…and half the governments in the world…they'll get him back!" His voice took on a note of desperation. "Charlie will be back!"

The door to Amita's room opened slightly, and Dr. Ramanujan joined them. He spoke gently, and sadly. "We trust that this is true, Mr. Eppes. The last thing we would wish upon anyone is the loss of a child." His voice broke at the end, and he cleared his throat. "Our Amita, she has long-ago decided upon organ donation. She discussed this with us while still a child in high school – a friend of hers was reborn through a kidney transplant, after languishing on the list for over a year. This was not a rash decision, and she reminds us of it with regularity. The Santiago hospital can…accommodate…this desire, but her organs must remain viable. There is limited time." He glanced at his wife; then returned pain-filled eyes to Alan. "And it is too hard. For us."

Alan was torn between bottomless loyalty to Charlie and an overwhelming sympathy for the parents before him. He looked frantically from one to the other. A single, silent tear made its lazy way down Sarika's cheek, finally falling off her chin and plopping soundlessly off the linoleum floor. Alan rubbed his hand across his face, noticing for the first time that he was crying himself. He turned his head to gaze through the window at Amita, almost unrecognizable under the respirator, nearly hidden behind the myriad of monitors. He watched the forced rise-and-fall of her chest, and in his mind, he saw her smile, and heard her laughter. He remembered the way her eyes darkened a little and took on a deep shine, whenever she would look at his youngest son. "Oh, my God," he whispered. He looked back to the Ramanujans, stunned. "Oh, my God," he repeated. "We have to let her go!"

End, Chapter 16


	17. It All Comes Out in the Wash

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 17: It All Comes Out in the Wash**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

Lorenzo Santito swallowed thickly and blinked nervously at the two Americans. There was hardly room in his office for air — officials of every description crowded around his desk. He had recognized the uniforms of local Santiago police and the Chilean state enforcement unit right away, as soon as they strode into the room. Still, he probably could have dealt with them sufficiently enough with another large contribution. It was the eight men who followed who really put him off his game. Lorenzo studied identification from the United Nations International Drug Control Program, and from at least two agencies within the United States; the DEA and the FBI. Worst of all, Lorenzo was not a man without instincts. The barely-contained fuming of the two burly FBI agents in particular was disturbing, and he found himself almost grateful that the other officers were there to control them. He licked dry lips and his voice cracked. "I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about. I run a legitimate business. My brother-in-law is the warden of the Santiago prison - he can tell you this is true!"

The dark-haired American leaned over his desk and planted his hands; palms flat, and arched an eyebrow. "Considering that Torres is an inmate in his own prison, now, you'll understand if that does not overly impress me. Just who the hell do you think sent us here?"

Santito waited while one of the Chilean officers translated. His eyes grew wide, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed again. Torres was compromised? He had turned on Lorenzo? Another Chilean officer took up the conversation and Santito's fears were confirmed. "We are aware of the partnership between you and your brother-in-law - I assure you, you will be sharing a cell before the day is done. Your crimes are subject to Chile's death penalty, and you know Chilean justice is swift. Your only hope is to help us find the American. Where did your truck take him?"

Desperate fear held Lorenzo's tongue, for a moment. It was true, what they said - if Torres was talking to save his own life, he could implicate Santito in more than enough to qualify him for death. Yet, if Santito did the same thing, and gave up Macedo, the cartel's punishment would be even swifter, and would amount to the same thing. For a moment, he could think of no way out. His hands began to sweat as they crept toward each other on the desk, as if seeking each other's comfort. The American growled and stepped back. "Throw him in with the general population," he ordered. "Let the other prisoners take care of this piece of spineless shit for us."

No one bothered to interpret that for Santito, but he nonetheless got the idea - and another one, as well. He looked hopefully at the international contingent of officers. "You must keep me out of the Santiago prison. Give me another name, and send me to some other place. A prison in...in... Turkey, perhaps, or...or an island in the Aleutians, or something. His influence is far-reaching, and he will kill me!" A new fear lit in his eyes. "My family -- I want them protected, moved. How do the Americans say? Witness protection?"

A UNDCP agent frowned, and then looked at one of the Chilean agents. "His brother-in-law is that powerful?"

Santito's heart was beating so rapidly he was convinced he would be dead of a heart attack soon, anyway. He shook his head rapidly and scribbled frantically on the back of an invoice that lay on his desk. He shoved it toward the American, his hand shaking. The American scowled, snatched the paper and quickly scanned the one word. Santito watched him pale, and the fact that even the Americans feared the cartel only increased his terror.

Don dropped the paper from nerveless fingers and Colby tracked its slow flutter to the desk. The paper settled, and as he focused on what Santito had scribbled, he drew in a sharp breath: "Macedo." It was confirmation of the information that the Russian had given them the day before.

Colby frowned at Santito. "We know this already. We need to know _where_." The translator rattled his words off rapidly.

Santito shrugged helplessly. "I do not know – he was transferred to another vehicle. I expect that they were taking him to Colombia, but I cannot say for sure."

At the translation, Don's shoulders sagged. He had been hoping somehow, that the Russian had been wrong, that there was some other explanation, and Macedo was not involved. Now, not only had it been confirmed, they had hit a dead end. The man had just summed it up neatly. It did them no good to know who had Charlie if they had no idea where in the world Macedo had taken him.

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Charlie had stayed under the hot water as long as he dared.

He had let the spray pound his neck and shoulders, and while it had helped, he had been unable to find a way to wash his hair. He tried to lift his arms to his head, and found that he could not. Then, he tried to lower his head to meet his hands, and had cried out in agony. Within moments, a guard had burst through the door, machine gun waving, rattling off a rapid stream of Spanish. Charlie had stood exposed and helpless in the shower, backing as far into the corner as he could. The guard had shouted at him a little more, and to his utter chagrin, Charlie had suddenly reached his breaking point and had begun to cry and shiver. This had only caused the guard to continue his diatribe, advancing on Charlie, who had slid miserably down the marble wall and huddled in a ball in the corner of the shower. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited to die.

He opened them again when a second voice began to utter commands in Spanish, and the water was turned off. He looked up at a starched white uniform, and decided that he must already be dead. His sobbing decreased to hiccups as he watched a decidedly matronly -- nurse? She must be a nurse; white stockings, white shoes -- shoved the guard from the bathroom and clicked the door shut behind him.Then she walked into the wet shower, and bent over Charlie, her large breasts straining against the material of the uniform. "I am Marlita," she said softly in clear and only slightly-accented English. "I am nurse here at compound. Hush now, the boor is gone. Tell Marlita what troubles you?"

Charlie nearly choked on his next hiccup. _What troubled him?_ Where should he start? He had been framed in a drug smuggling case; his girlfriend could be dead for all he knew; he was tossed into a hellhole of a South American prison where he was surely beaten and possibly raped; he was drugged and dragged from that prison to whatever this place was; and oh, yes -- there was also the fact that his own brother hated him and he had no idea why. He shook his head gingerly and tried to move his arms enough so that his hands would cover his nakedness.

Her forehead creased in compassion as her dark eyes appraised him. She took in the bruises, and the awkward way he moved. "You have been hurt." It was a statement, not a question, and Charlie did not respond. She straightened suddenly, back creaking loudly in the acoustic shower; then leaned again slightly to grab his upper arm firmly. "Marlita will help you stand," she stated matter-of-factly. "Come, now. I will help with the towel, and the clothing." Unable to push himself off the shower floor with his hands, Charlie was pitifully grateful for her assistance. The large woman was able to lift him easily. She led him on shaking legs to the edge of the shower, then reached around the corner of the wall and came back with a plush and fluffy white towel. Without preamble she began to dry Charlie off. "Later, Marlita will come to your room with medicine," she promised, noting his wince when she lifted his arm slightly. "You must hurry, now. He waits for you."

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David paced around the conference room, rubbing his bald head. "Damn it!" he shouted, causing Megan to look up from her position behind the computer technician, who nearly came off the chair. "When the hell can we get in touch with Larry, anyway? That's the third 'Rafe' we've found in the Macedo cartel!"

Megan laid a comforting hand on the tech's shoulder and murmured. "We have Elena's cell, David. Chances are only one of these guys will link to her."

David would not be mollified. "You don't know that," he huffed, standing now with his hands on his hips. "She worked for Macedo too; she probably got orders from more than one guy in the cartel. Even if we narrow it down, we still need to cross-reference all the calls this 'Rafe' made -- we need something faster than this moron!"

The frazzled tech jerked his head up and thought about defending himself, but David still stood in a position where his service weapon was apparent. The tech ducked his head back to peer at the screen and held his tongue. Megan moved out from behind him and approached Sinclair. "He's doing the best he can," she said gently. "Remember that search engine Charlie's been developing? He's used it on a couple of cases for us, but he insists it's not ready, yet."

David crossed his arms in front of him, nodding. "Exactly. That's what I'm talking about."

Megan smiled. "Charlie and Larry have been each other's security blankets for years. They load an extra copy of anything that might possibly be important on each other's computers. I'm sure Larry has a beta version of the latest existing search engine on his laptop. He'll be landing soon - let's narrow this puppy down as much as we can before then, okay?"

David sighed, looked at the floor and then raised a determined face to the tech again. "Give me what you've got on the first three. I'm going to run them through Interpol and try to come up with some photos - maybe we'll get lucky and Elena will recognize one of them."

Megan nodded, happy that David had gotten himself back under control, but still felt her own tension level increase.

Somehow, she didn't think luck was exactly in Charlie's corner, these days.

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He was well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-spoken.

He waited for Charlie to carefully lower himself to the chair in front of the desk, and arranged his well-manicured hands in a careful "V" slightly below his chin. "Dr. Eppes," he began smoothly. "Welcome to my estate. I promise I won't keep you too long this evening. Marlita tells me that your time in the Santiago prison has left you with...some issues, shall we say? I will merely explain my little project to you first, before I allow Marlita to administer some pain medication." He dropped his hands and sighed dramatically. "I'm afraid that time is somewhat of the essence, and I cannot allow you more than a few hours' rest before you begin. I do hope you understand."

Feeling as if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole somewhere, Charlie struggled to make sense of this refined stranger and his elaborate surroundings. "What..." his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. " What do you want with me? Where is my family? Who are you?"

The stranger smiled. "You are understandably confused and overwhelmed, Dr. Eppes. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hector Macedo. I have...well, not quite _admired_...but respected your work. No doubt, the UNDCP was of great assistance to your DEA during the development of the MEE tracking algorithm. I'm curious, Dr. Why '_MEE_'? Is there some significance?"

Charlie's blood, he was sure, was congealing on the spot. He had more than a passing familiarity with the name 'Macedo', thanks to his work with the DEA. This polite, polished, middle-aged man operated one of the most successful drug operations in the world? The guard standing over Charlie jammed the muzzle of his automatic weapon into his ribs. "Answer!"

Charlie gasped, drawing away from the source of pain. "M...m...my moth...mother," he whispered. "Margaret Elaine Eppes..."

Macedo smiled, and if anything, that chilled Charlie further. "Ah, of course. She was an attorney, yes? No doubt she had strong opinions regarding such things as my line of work." He glanced down at an open file folder on his desk, nodded once, and looked back at Charlie. "I see that you were very close. My belated condolences."

Charlie suddenly felt as if he was going to throw up, even though he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Macedo had a dossier on him. What in God's name did he want? He did not have to wait long for an answer. Macedo's cordial tone turned into ice. "You are here to bypass your own work, Dr. Eppes. _MEE_ has severely crippled my business, and you will devise a way around this obstacle. You will find that I am not a patient man. For every day that you delay, the price will be steep." He paused, glanced at the file again, then back at Charlie. "You will find that I am not a barbarian. I will give you some time to rest and recuperate before you begin. Once you have started, however, I expect results." Macedo stood, signaling an end to the interview. "Rest well, Dr. Eppes. You will begin your work in five hours."

He watched as Charlie was led from the room; then turned to Rafe. "I believe we will begin with the girlfriend. Instruct Emilio to visit the hospital in the morning, and streamline a video into the mainframe. I want Dr. Eppes to be convinced that I am not a man of idle threats."

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End, Chapter 17


	18. I Promise

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 18: I Promise**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Marshall Penfield fumbled for his cell phone, no small feat, as he steered one-handed through the fast, unpredictable Santiago traffic. The conference had ended, and he had made the trek back to the city. He would spend a night there, and head out for Rio de Janeiro in the morning for a little well-deserved R&R. He was on his way to his hotel, when the phone rang.

He flipped it open, and grunted in frustration as the traffic came to a sudden stop. "Penfield."

"It is Rafe. You can talk?"

Marshall frowned at the line of stopped cars in front of him. "Yeah." At the next words, he was glad he wasn't moving, because he wasn't sure if he would have been able to maintain his concentration.

"Macedo requests your presence."

"What?" stammered Penfield. "My presence? I thought you guys had Eppes."

"Macedo thinks it would be a good idea to verify his work, and believed that you are the one who is best to do that. He wishes you to fly to Bogotá, as soon as possible. We will have a man pick you up at the airport."

_Shit. There went Rio and the bikinis. _Worse yet, was the nagging doubt that he would be able to keep up with what Eppes was doing, and face it, any contact with Macedo or his men raised the hair on the back of his neck. He tried to sound confident. "Right. I'm in Santiago now, I'll find a flight and then call you back."

"Do not delay." The line went dead, and Penfield stared at the cars in front of him, with a lump of frustration in his throat.

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Charlie felt a shake and groaned, raising a hand to ward off the offender who was disturbing his sleep. Marlita's voice penetrated the fog. "Come, it is time to get up. You do not want to anger him."

The words brought him wide-awake, as he remembered where he was. After his conference with Macedo, they had brought him to this room. It was windowless, but contained a comfortable bed. Marlita had met him there, with food, real food, and something that Charlie surmised was a muscle relaxant, because it made his brain, already fuzzy with pain and fatigue, even more sluggish. More medicine followed, an injection that Marlita assured him was cortisone. She situated him in the bed, tucking him in almost as if he was a child, and he complied, meekly.

As soon as she left, Charlie dragged himself from the bed to try the door. It was locked, as he expected, and he staggered back over to lie down, and to try to think over his options. The contemplation didn't last long. Groggy, full, drugged and exhausted, he had let sleep claim him, in spite of the predicament he was in, in spite of the growing pain in his neck and upper body.

Now, as he preceded the guard down the hallway, the realization of that predicament came back to hit him with full force. In spite of the civil treatment so far, he knew he was in a dire situation. Macedo was asking him to override the programming that he and others had worked on to filter out small-transaction money laundering. It had taken a long time to develop, and even though Charlie knew how the algorithms worked, it would also take some time to develop counter-programming. That was good, though, he decided. Time would work in his favor; the longer he delayed this, the better the chances were that someone could find him before he finished. That was imperative, he knew, because he hated to think what might be at the end of the project. He had a bad feeling that letting him go wasn't one of the options.

The guard led him down the hall, back to the room where he had met Macedo, and ordered him to sit at one of the computers. There was no one else in the room, and the guard backed away and sat in a corner, his automatic weapon slung across his chest. "Work!" he commanded gruffly, and Charlie raised his hands to the keyboard, and began to type.

He signed in through the firewall; he had gone into this site at the DEA's request just a month ago, and fortunately, the password was still valid. As he entered the site, the implications of what he was doing, what had brought him there, hit him. The people who had set him up, who had drugged him and Amita, and put the woman he loved in the hospital, were asking him to do this, and on top of that, it went against every moral fiber in his being. He'd be damned if he was going to make it easy for them.

He thought furiously; he had to come up with a way to make it look like he had given them what they wanted, without really doing so. He needed a sub-program, some kind of hidden tracer, so that even if the main programming was foiled, they could track the transactions that way. It would be tricky, but, given a bit of extra time, not impossible. His fingers flew over the keyboard, and the resulting clicking was the only sound in the room.

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Don sighed and rubbed his face wearily. He was sitting with Colby and Lieutenant Espinoza, going over the slim leads they had so far. He glanced over his shoulder with rising frustration at Larry, who was seated at a computer terminal nearby. Don knew he should be patient, Larry was doing his best, but as the professor admitted himself, his math knowledge took a backseat to his knowledge of physics, and Don couldn't help but think that Charlie would have been a hell of a lot faster.

They had picked him up from the airport at noon, it was hours later, and Larry was still trying to run sorts on the cell phone numbers. He had nailed down which 'Rafe' had been communicating with the flight attendant; a man by the name of Rafe Muñoz, and now was trying to sort through Muñoz' other calls, looking for something, anything, any person, any new link that would give them a clue as to where they might have taken Charlie.

For they had no idea. They had gotten the information out of Santito and his people that Charlie had been transferred from a laundry truck to a van, but they had no license plate, nothing to indicate where that van had gone. Even though they knew Macedo had him, Charlie might just as well have vanished into thin air.

Colby shook his head and sighed, voicing Don's thoughts. "Yeah, he could be anywhere. Hell, he might not even be in South America anymore. Macedo's got holdings everywhere in the world, private aircraft…" They stared morosely at the pitiful pile of documents in front of them, the scanty evidence that had gotten them nowhere.

An exclamation from Larry made them all look up, and Don took in the dumbfounded look on the professor's face. "Oh dear," said Larry, one hand creeping to the top of his head, his eyes still riveted to the screen. "I find this highly disturbing."

Don was on his feet now, followed by Colby and Espinoza, and they bent over Larry's shoulder, staring at the screen. It was filled with multiple lines of data, phone numbers and call times, and Don squinted, trying to find what had prompted Larry's reaction. "What is it?" he demanded impatiently.

"This group of calls was made to one number – several of them made at different times -," Larry pointed. "Look at the phone number, and now –," he clicked the mouse, changing screens – "look at the name associated with that number." Don stared, and his stomach dropped with a sickening lurch.

"Holy crap," breathed Colby. "Marshall Penfield?"

Espinoza frowned. "Who is this Penfield?"

Colby looked at Don, who seemed incapable of speech at the moment, and decided to answer. "He's a colleague of Charlie's, another math professor. He's down here too, attending the same conference that Charlie and Amita were supposed to go to."

"I don't understand," said Espinoza. "What would be the connection?"

Don had recovered enough to growl, "I don't either, but we're going to track him down and ask him." He looked at Espinoza. "The conference was supposed to end today. We need to know if he's still in the country."

Espinoza nodded and stepped over to the phone. "Easy enough." He dialed and spoke in rapid Spanish into the receiver. After a pause there was another brief spurt of conversation and a "gracias," and Espinoza looked at them meaningfully as he hung up. "I had my person check with the airport; Penfield has a flight out in the morning, but not to the U.S. – he's going to Bogotá."

Don's eyes flared with the first glimmer of hope he'd had since Charlie had disappeared, but he spoke grimly. "Then we need to be there first."

Espinoza nodded. "You will apprehend him at the airport?"

Don's eyes narrowed. "No – we'll follow him. If he's going to Bogotá, he must be meeting with Macedo. He's going to lead us to Charlie."

He glanced at his watch then, his face paling as he looked at Colby. "Can you book us on the flight?" he asked. "I have to meet my father."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don waited until last. He entered the room only after both Ramanujans and his father had taken all the time they needed. Then, even though the team of hospital personnel was already assembled in the hall, and he suspected that a myriad of doctors waited in the operating room, Don stepped into Amita's room.

He approached the bed and swallowed. Positioning himself so that he could see as much of her face as the respirator allowed, he began to speak. "Amita," he said hoarsely, letting his voice drift away for a moment. Don blinked rapidly, suddenly remembering the endless days and nights he had spent at his mother's bedside, and he shifted his gaze to the floor. God. This was too hard. This? Was too hard.

He sighed heavily and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans before he resolutely looked back to the bed. "Amita," he began again, and his voice was a little steadier now. "I know my father has probably already done a much better job of this than I could ever hope to, but I want to speak for my brother." He let his eyes wander to the ceiling, thinking. "I don't pretend to understand everything about Charlie. Never have, never will." He grinned a little, moving his gaze to her taped eyelids. "The little genius has been driving me crazy most of my life. Sometimes I don't have the remotest idea where he's coming from, you know?" He brought his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest, straddling his legs as if preparing to withstand something stronger than himself that threatened to take him down. "I gotta tell you, though," he continued, "even I can see how happy you've made him. I know you guys had kind of a rough start, but I see his eyes light up every time you come into a room…I see the way you look at each other when you think no one is looking….You mean the world to him, Amita." Don felt his throat closing, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Losing you will break his heart."

He spread his feet wider apart and moved his arms slightly so that he was hugging himself tightly around the chest. He breathed deeply for a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was steel. "I promise you, Amita, I will find him. And when I do, I will not let him go. I will love him for both of us." He closed his eyes and remembered one of his last conversations with his mother. She was weak and sick, and the hospice nurses said they didn't know why she was hanging on so long. Don had known, though. He knew why every time she asked about Charlie, and every time he caught her eyes tracking his father around the room.

He opened his own eyes again, recalling the promises he had made to his mother just a few hours before she passed. He studied his shoes for a while, then looked directly at Amita, and said what he knew she would want to hear. When he had said nearly the same words to his mother, he had felt resentment; it surprised him now that he no longer did. "Don't worry about him," he commanded softly, his words rich with conviction. "It's all right to let go, now. I'll take care of Charlie. I promise."

Don stood silently for the space of a breath. Then he shifted, and half-turned to start for the door. At the last second, he reached out and touched the back of her hand. It was almost his undoing. His knees nearly buckled under him as he registered the warmth of her body, and his mind screamed in protest. _She's alive_, he thought dumbly. _She's alive, and we're going to kill her!_

Eventually, Don pulled himself together long enough to shuffle to the door and open it slightly. He met his father's eyes briefly, and nodded silently. Alan and the Ramanujans filed slowly into the room, followed by two doctors and several nurses. Don knew that as soon as Amita was pronounced dead, her body would be rushed to the OR for organ harvesting. The word nearly made him ill every time he thought of it. _Harvesting._ As if the woman who taught physics at a prestigious university, helped develop cutting-edge investigative aides for the FBI, regularly pummeled him at _Monopoly_ and held his brother captive was nothing but an…apple, about to fall off a tree somewhere.

A keening wail hit his ears then, jogging Don out of his thoughts and back into the hospital room. He looked up quickly, frightened, and realized he had missed it. Sarika Ramanujan was slowly sinking to the floor, her cry an odd duet with the steady monotone of a heart monitor. His father had left his side and was moving toward the Ramanujans. Don knew that he should also, but he could not tear his eyes away from the hands pulling things out of Amita.

She was gone. Dear God in heaven, Amita was gone.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Rafe's man Emilio took in the scene, frowning. He had dressed in scrubs, blending in easily with the hospital personnel, and had approached the room, only to find that they were in the process of disconnecting the life support of the young woman. He had been instructed by Rafe to take a short video of her with his cell phone, to prove to their captive that they could get to his girlfriend easily, and kill her if he did not cooperate. In moments, she would be dead, and they would lose that advantage. Still, he had his orders. He dared not risk Macedo's wrath by not carrying them out.

He slipped in behind the people in the room, standing behind them. It would be extremely risky to take the video; any one of them could turn and see him at any moment. He decided that if they caught him, he would explain that he was an intern, and was documenting the procedure for his studies. As the doctor switched off the equipment, Emilio raised the phone, and started recording, catching the girl's pretty face, the flat line on the monitor, her mother's sobs, and the grief on the faces of those in the room. He need not have worried that they would see him – all eyes were on her, as the last flicker of life left her. He got footage of the doctor also, gently explaining to the parents that they would take her immediately for organ harvest, and then got one more shot of her face, still and tranquil, before he clicked the cell phone shut, and eased out of the room. Moments later, the video was on its way to Macedo himself, per his request.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

End, Chapter 18


	19. Film at 11

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 19: Film at 11**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Don sat waiting with Espinoza, chafing in the passenger seat outside the Bogotá airport. It was a little after eight Saturday morning, and Penfield's flight had landed a half hour ago. There was a small fleet of cars waiting to track them, with more stationed on the perimeters of the city as contingencies. Don's car was third in line, Colby was in front of them with a DEA agent, and there was yet another car in front of them. All of them had Colombian drivers, familiar with the roads. They would all set off after Penfield when he came out, and at periodic intervals, the lead driver would turn off, and the next in line would follow, to try to camouflage the fact that they were in pursuit.

Espinoza was in the back seat, leaning forward, when Don's phone rang. Don flipped it open. "Eppes."

Colby's voice came over the line. "Okay, Don, they just called. A car just picked Penfield up at the curb. It's a blue BMW." He rattled off the license number and Don relayed the info to the driver. Moments later, they were moving.

They were far enough back in traffic that Don couldn't even see the BMW up ahead, but in his mind, he could picture the back of Penfield's head. The thought that the man was involved in this made his stomach turn; this was the same guy that he had conspired with to do the FBI course. Penfield must have been ecstatic over that; he thought grimly – it was just one more way to get at Charlie, and through his own brother, no less. He wondered if Penfield had been plotting with Macedo while Don was working with him, and the thought made him even sicker. Guilt weighed on his brain like an anvil, making it sluggish, hard to think. With an effort, he threw it off – he needed to be all there – they couldn't afford to screw this up.

It took them an hour just to get clear of the city; the traffic made L.A. streets look tame, and a few times the driver had to speak with the cars ahead as they got cut off. Eventually, though, they were out on more open roads, heading through relatively sparsely populated areas. They had an easier time keeping track of each other, and could let a few cars in between them. At around twenty miles out, the first car turned off. Now Colby's car was in the lead, and most of the incidental traffic disappeared, as the landscape grew more remote.

The driver spoke on his phone; then glanced at Don and Espinoza. "We need to drop back; the lead car will tell us when to pull up. Macedo had a complex out this way; there is a possibility that they are going there."

Don drummed his fingers on the armrest anxiously as they slowed, and the lead vehicle and the BMW slipped out of sight on the road ahead. '_Don't lose him_, Colby,' he thought to himself.

After what seemed an eternity, they got the go-ahead to accelerate, and after several minutes, caught back up, just as Colby's vehicle pulled off on a rural road. They were only behind Penfield's vehicle for a few minutes before it signaled a left turn, and headed down a gravel road. The driver grunted. "Macedo's complex." He stepped on the gas and shot past the road, and Don's head whipped around to stare at it.

He looked back at the driver. "Aren't we going to follow?"

The driver shook his head. "It is a dead end road. There is nothing on it but the complex, and the road is watched. If we turned down it, they would know that we tried to follow."

Espinoza frowned. "But we know where they are. That was almost too easy."

The driver was pulling out his cell phone. "No, not easy. A surprise attack on the complex will be almost impossible. We will need to regroup, and plan." He spoke into his cell phone, relaying the information, and Don looked back over his shoulder, with a mixture of impatience and apprehension. He could see nothing but a wall of tropical foliage. He was aware that Penfield's presence wasn't a sure indicator that his brother was even on the premises, but he could feel it. Charlie was back there, somewhere. He clung to the armrest as the driver made a fast U-turn, and headed back toward Bogotá.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie raised his hands to the keyboard to pull up his main file, and the resulting wave of pain nearly brought up his breakfast. He had worked long into the night before they let him sleep, and he woke up groggy and unbearably stiff. The pain in his neck and shoulders was back and seemed to be worsening, radiating down his arms, and now even into his lower back. Marlita had fussed over him at breakfast, and he had heard her arguing with Rafe out in the hall. She came in, clucking something in broken English about them not allowing her to give him a muscle relaxant because they wanted him to be sharp. She seemed to have taken a liking to Charlie, and though he supposed he should be grateful, it seemed like a small consolation. She couldn't help him enough to matter, really; it wasn't as if she could help him escape.

Trying to ignore the pain, he pulled up the second spreadsheet. He had started the base work on the programming on one sheet, and on the other, he was developing the tracing algorithm. Until they were married together and the tracing algorithm was imbedded in the other programming, it would be apparent to anyone with moderate math knowledge what he was doing, and he had worked feverishly through the night trying to get to the point where he could combine them, and hide the incriminating work. He wasn't quite there yet, but it didn't seem to matter; the only one in the room with him was the guard, who seemed to be completely computer illiterate, and Charlie suspected, strikingly deficient in math as well. He was still nervous, however; Macedo could send in someone knowledgeable at any time.

He was deep in concentration moments later, and didn't hear the approaching vehicle wind its way up the road, and pull out of sight around the side of the house. He had no clue that anything was up until the door opened suddenly. Charlie started so violently it sent a wave of pain through his neck, and he quickly pulled up the main spreadsheet on the screen to hide the one that held the tracing algorithm.

"You will come with me," said the voice behind him, and Charlie turned his body carefully to look at another guard standing in the doorway.

"All right," he said, turning back to the computer, anxious to close the incriminating file. "Let me just save this…"

"Hands off," the guard barked sharply, and darted forward. "You will leave your work and come now."

Charlie hesitated; then lowered his hands as the muzzle of the guard's automatic probed his shoulder blade. He desperately wanted to close the tracer file, but another prod from the gun made him realize that it wasn't an option. He rose stiffly, and shuffled from the room, his heart thumping. One click of the mouse, and his incriminating work would be in plain view. He felt a little better when he got out in the hallway, and saw no one waiting to go in to look at his work. Maybe they just wanted a progress report. He walked slowly down the hallway to a doorway, and into a good-sized room, where he was ushered in front of Rafe Muñoz.

Marshall Penfield was hurried down the hallway by the guard, and shown into a large office containing several computers. They didn't waste any time, he thought; he had gotten brief instructions to survey Eppes' work, and they had hustled him right to the monitor. He sat down at the one they indicated, and looked at the file up on the screen. He scrolled through it, studying it, and then went back through again, and again. Eppes hadn't gotten as far as he figured he would, and he smirked a little. Maybe he wasn't such a hot shot. He stood, and almost stepped away from the computer before the tab in the bottom bar caught his eye.

Frowning, he leaned forward again, and brought up the spreadsheet with a click of the mouse. He emitted a low whistle as he scrolled through it. "Just what are you doing here, Eppsie?" he murmured, and his eyes lit as he studied the work. No wonder Eppes hadn't been progressing very fast, he'd been working on counter-programming – a tracer. It would have been hard to catch once embedded in the rest of the programming, but obviously, Eppes hadn't gotten that far yet. In the separate file, the tracer stuck out like a sore thumb. _Just wait until Macedo catches wind of this._ With a grin, he straightened, and faced the guard. "I'm ready."

He couldn't help the little flutter of anticipation as he walked down the hallway. He was going to get a chance to gloat, to enjoy Eppes' predicament after all. And almost as satisfying was the knowledge that Eppes would know that Penfield was a big part of his undoing. It was almost too good to stand.

When he stepped through the doorway and caught the dumbfounded look on Eppes' face, he knew it was going to be as good as he'd hoped. He smiled. "Hello, Eppsie."

"Penfield?" Charlie's voice rose in disbelief, and he stared, his mouth open. Penfield took in his appearance; there was no question, Eppes looked like hell. They had dressed him in some kind of loose fitting linen garments, and they hung on him like gunnysacks. His face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot, and he was bent forward slightly, his body stiff, as if he was in pain. He took an involuntary step forward, and the guard next to him grabbed his arm, provoking a wince.

"Well?" demanded Rafe.

Penfield glanced around. There were several men in the room, most of them guards, but no one who looked like Macedo. He hadn't met him in person yet, and he wanted the opportunity to flaunt his find in front of the big man. "Perhaps I should wait for Macedo," he said smoothly.

Rafe scowled. "He is on his way. You may begin. Is the work satisfactory?"

Charlie heard the words as if in a daze. Penfield was involved in this? He realized slowly that it must have been Penfield that gave Macedo his name – how else would Macedo have known to use him? That meant Penfield was the instigator behind the grab at the airport, the drugging, Amita…. The thought struck him dumb. How could a colleague have done this to one of his peers? It wasn't rational, it was inconceivable…

"… he deliberately intends to sabotage the programming," Penfield was saying, and Charlie's mind lurched back into the conversation.

"That's not true," he stammered, his heart pounding.

Penfield shook his head in derision. "Don't try to lie your way out of it, Eppes. Your tracer programming is sitting there in plain view. I'm sure one of Macedo's programmers could verify what I'm saying."

Rafe stepped forward to within inches of Charlie, his eyes flashing angrily. Behind him, the door opened soundlessly, and Macedo stepped into the room. Charlie's eyes flickered toward him, then back at Rafe, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a wave of rage hit him. "You did this to me – you put my girlfriend in the hospital," he hissed, his eyes boring back into Rafe's, his body trembling with uncontrollable fury. He shot a furious glance toward Penfield and Macedo. "Screw you. Kill me if you want. I'll be damned if I'm working for slime like you!"

Rafe's face contorted with rage, and he began to yell something, but Charlie couldn't catch what it was. He was too busy doubling over from the blow to his gut, which sent the air out of him with a whoosh. Rafe's fists landed again, hammering his torso, and in the midst of the pain, Charlie was dimly aware of the anger on Macedo's face, and the satisfied, rapt expression on Penfield's.

Marshall watched with secret excitement as the fists landed, each punch providing an illicit thrill. He heard a crack as a fist connected with Eppes' chest, and watched him double over, gasping for breath. How long had he waited for this? It was better than he'd dreamed – the only thing that would be more satisfying was if he could deliver the blows himself. A fist connected with Eppes' jaw, and it tore a cry of agony from him as his head snapped back, and he sagged to his knees, supported by the guards on either side.

"Enough!" snapped Macedo, and Rafe turned, breathing heavily. The door opened, and Marlita quietly entered the room behind Macedo, drawn from the hallway by the prisoner's cry of pain.

Everyone in the room froze, and Macedo walked slowly forward, cell phone in hand. He spoke quietly, in an aside to Rafe. "We cannot afford to kill him, yet. There is another way."

Charlie leaned heavily on the guards' arms; even on his knees he could barely remain upright. The blow to his jaw and the resulting jarring of his neck had sent a spear of pain down his spine, and his legs had given out, suddenly nerveless. They felt numb, then tingly, and although the feeling was slowly returning, he still didn't trust himself to stand. He could feel new agony in his rib cage, and a trickle of blood ran from his mouth. He panted, his chest heaving painfully.

Macedo leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Charlie's. "My programmers warned me that you were not following instructions," he said. He was lying; no one had looked at the work until Penfield that morning, but he needed Eppes to think it was found earlier, to make what he was going to say next convincing. He continued, his eyes like black marbles, hard, cold, his voice smooth, deadly.

"I brought Senor Penfield down to confirm it. But first, I determined that you should pay the consequences of your actions." He flipped the cell phone open, bringing up the video that Emilio had recorded, hit play, and placed it in front of Charlie's face. "Because of your stupidity, your girlfriend has paid with her life. I had my man disconnect her equipment." He paused as he saw the professor's eyes focus on the short video clip, and watched the horror dawn in his face. "She is dead, Professor Eppes. You killed her. And if you do not do as we ask, your father is next."

The clip had run out, Macedo hit play again, and the sound of Sarika's Ramanujan's sobbing and the doctor's ensuing quiet discussion filled the room. It was followed by a moan of pure pain, an animal sound of grief, as Charlie's mind found its way through the shock and grasped the reality in front of him. He sagged forward against the guards' arms, his face twisted in agony. "Amita – God – no…"

Penfield watched in sick fascination as Eppes collapsed, his shoulders shaking, and deep racking sobs convulsed his body. And as Penfield exulted, one behind him mourned. Marlita's eyes filled with tears as she watched her patient in the throes of his grief. And somewhere in her sadness, her submerged hatred of Macedo, long buried, resurfaced. That vermin, that scum would get his, she vowed. Somehow, she would find the courage to repay him for his crimes, against her family, against all of the poor innocents over the years. Her eyes black; she flicked away the tears and straightened her shoulders; her gaze boring into the back of Macedo's head.

End, Chapter 19


	20. Snakes and Angels

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 20: Snakes and Angels **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Marlita opened the door to the professor's room, her jaw set. She had asked for a few moments to tend to the patient, and Macedo had grudgingly granted it, with the stipulation that he be put back to work within thirty minutes. It had taken two guards to help him back to his room; he was staggering badly, whether from grief or his injuries, or both, she wasn't sure. She had gone for ice, and as she stepped back into the room, her heart contracted in pity.

One of the men had left the cell phone, apparently, because the young man was holding it, curled up on his side on the bed, pressing the play button repeatedly, whispering brokenly to himself. Marlita didn't doubt that Macedo had told the guard to leave it on purpose.

"I'm sorry Amita," Charlie moaned softly, gazing at the video, as tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" He had been so stupid, to think that they wouldn't find some way to look at his work. He was sure that he had shut down the computer, but if they had access to the site, they could easily go back in and look at what he'd done. The site was high clearance; he'd just assumed they couldn't get in. He'd been stupid and naïve, and now Amita… _God, Amita, how will I live without you? I'll never see you again… _"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry…" His face crumpled, contorted with grief, and he barely felt the gentle hand slip the cell phone away, as sobs consumed him.

Marlita slipped the phone quietly in her pocket, and stroked the young man's shoulder, gently. "Now, little one," she murmured, as if she were talking to one of her own children. "It will be all right. You must try to put it aside for now, or he will hurt your father also. I know he will do as he says – he is cold and cruel. You must take him seriously. I need to look at your injuries; we have only fifteen minutes now."

She got him to lie back and hold the ice to his swollen jaw; then she lifted the loose linen shirt, clucking her tongue at the bruises and swelling on his rib cage. She probed his abdomen gently, and satisfied herself that there appeared to be no internal injuries, although without x-rays she couldn't be sure…it was entirely possible he had at least one broken rib. He endured it quietly, his eyes still filled with heartbreak and fixed on the ceiling, but the sobbing had stopped. The mention of his father had apparently prompted him to try to pull himself together.

Somehow, she got him back on his feet and, with the help of a guard, back down the hall to the computer, where Macedo, Rafe, and the gringo called Penfield were gathered. Penfield was showing them something on the computer screen with a smug smile, but they stopped talking as Charlie entered.

Charlie didn't say a word, but the look of sadness, betrayal and disbelief he turned on Penfield made him squirm inwardly. He watched as Charlie turned silently, and lowered himself slowly, painfully into the chair in front of the computer, completely ignoring them, and began to work, his face grim.

Macedo watched with satisfaction as Eppes deleted the tracer file, and turned his attention to the remaining programming. "You would do well to follow orders in the future," he said coldly, and prepared to exit the room.

He was stopped by Marlita, who stepped in front of him with an outstretched hand. "I believe this is yours, sir," she said, handing him his cell phone. Her voice was smooth; she needed to hide her hatred, at this moment more than ever. "I need to go into town to get some medical supplies while he is working. May I have your permission?"

Macedo's glance flicked over her, without interest. "If you must." He passed by her without another word, followed by all of the others except Penfield and the guard.

Penfield stopped behind Charlie's chair on the way out, and leaned over. Charlie felt his presence and froze, his hands resting on the keyboard. "Too bad about Amita," said Penfield softly, in Charlie's ear. "You really screwed it up this time, Eppes. Of course, you won't have to agonize over it too long, you'll be right behind her." He straightened and stepped toward the door.

Marlita watched him go, a look of distaste on her face, as if she had swallowed something noxious. She looked back at the young man, his hands still frozen on the keyboard. "_No si puedo ayudarle_," she thought to herself. "_Not if I can help it_."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don bent over the table with the others, peering intently at the drawing of the compound layout. A lieutenant Juan Gonzalez, head of the Colombian militia, had organized the meeting; there were a number of the Colombians present, along with some Chilean police, including Espinoza, and several DEA agents.

Gonzalez was speaking. His English was excellent, only slightly accented, and he seemed to know some of the DEA agents. "We have good knowledge of the layout of the compound; we have been there several times on raids," he said. "Unfortunately, they were fruitless. Macedo's cocaine processing sites are nowhere near this complex. We think that his business people work there – we concentrated on the computers, but we never found anything incriminating on them. This kidnapping represents the best chance we have ever had to get to him, especially if he is on site, which our intelligence tells us is so."

Don scowled a little at the comment; "this kidnapping" was not just a chance to get to Macedo, the victim happened to be his little brother. He caught Colby looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and he tried to smooth out his expression. "_Be patient_," he told himself, "_You need these guys."_

Gonzalez continued. "The complex is surrounded by electric fence and high walls, and is loaded with security, especially when Macedo is on site. By security, I mean trained mercenaries with automatic weapons, a formidable force. Even with many men, it would take time to breach the perimeter. To add to the problem, we have no idea where in the complex they are holding him."

"I would venture to say the computer room," came a quiet voice from the corner of the room, and Don watched as the group turned in surprise to look at Larry Fleinhardt. Larry and his father had followed Don and Colby to Colombia as soon as the Ramanujans had made their own arrangements to leave Santiago with Amita's body. Don had invited him to the meeting – he wasn't quite sure why – maybe he'd grown unconsciously comfortable with having a consultant around.

Larry slipped off the table he was sitting on, and approached the center table, an elbow resting in one hand, and the other hand on his chin. "There is a way to optimize which points to attack, depending on where in the building he might be. I could run an analysis that would show you which areas to breach first, in order to get to his location the fastest. I'm assuming you have a model of this on the computer."

Lieutenant Gonzalez had a bemused expression on his face, but he nodded. "That would be helpful, but understand, it will still take several minutes to get to him. If we are wrong about the computer room, or if there are guards in his immediate vicinity, they could kill him before we get to him." He saw Agent Eppes blink at that statement, and opened his mouth to continue, but cut off the words, as an aide burst into the room, breathless.

"Lieutenant, I have someone on the phone who wishes to speak with you," he said. "She says she is a worker at the Macedo compound. She said there is a man being held there, and that she wanted someone in charge to know what is going on."

Gonzalez was crossing the phone as the aide spoke, and grabbed the phone. "Yes, this is Lieutenant Gonzalez." Don was on his feet now, watching Gonzalez' face anxiously as the lieutenant listened.

"How do I know you are legitimate?" Gonzalez replied into the phone. He listened, then covered the phone and looked up. "She is giving an accurate physical description of Doctor Eppes. She said his neck is injured."

Don nodded. "That's true." '_He's alive then_,' he thought, as relief surged through him. _'He's still alive.' _A thought occurred to him, and he darted to the table. "Larry, if you had to take a wild guess, without doing the analysis, what point would be the easiest to reach first?"

Larry considered the drawing. "I would have to say, the kitchen."

Gonzalez nodded, his hand still covering the phone. "The cover is good on that side of the compound, it would be easier to put men there than other points." He looked at Don and nodded approvingly. "I see where you are going."

Removing his hand, he spoke back into the receiver. "Señora, we need your help. How can we meet with you?"

He frowned at the reply, and looked at the group. "She says it is too dangerous to meet." He covered the receiver and lowered his voice, this time looking directly at Don. "The question is; do we trust her? She may be a Macedo operative, trying to gauge our level of awareness."

Don's brow furrowed. "If they were suspicious at all, then why did they allow Penfield to go there? I would think they would have thought it too much of a risk." He glanced at Colby as if looking for guidance.

Colby shrugged, apologetically. "I don't know, man," he said softly, sympathy in his blue eyes. "It's your call."

Don paused, aware of all of the eyes on him. If this really was a Macedo spy, and they let her in on their plans, he would be signing Charlie's death warrant. "Let me talk to her."

Gonzalez handed him the phone without a word, and Don spoke into it, trying to soften the edge to his voice. "Señora, this Don Eppes. I'm Charlie's brother. I need to know why you are doing this."

Marlita ignored the knock on the door to the drugstore restroom. "I cannot tell you why, exactly," she said speaking quietly into the prepaid phone. "Let us just say that I have a history with Macedo. He holds threats over the heads of all of his workers – that is how he keeps them loyal. My family is grown, and gone. His threats mean little to me, anymore. I am tired of his cruelty – and wish to avenge old wrongs. Your brother seems like a good man; he is undeserving of such treatment."

"_What treatment?"_ Don wanted to ask, but he forced his mind to evaluate what he had just heard. Something in her tone rang true. He hoped to God she wasn't merely an accomplished actress. He looked at Gonzalez and nodded his decision, then spoke into the phone. "We were aware that he is being held there, and were planning to extract him. If we were to ask you to get him to a point in the complex, would you have the access to do that?"

"Si, yes," she replied.

"How can we get hold of you again, to tell you when we are coming?"

She shook her head as if he could see it, and winced as the pounding on the door grew louder, and a woman's angry voice came from the other side. "I cannot get away to speak to you again…. Señor, I have access to sedatives, and…" – she paused, thinking quickly – "and I can gain access to the evening meal. You should come tonight. I am not sure your brother can endure much more. Where do you wish me to take him?"

Don looked wildly at Larry, terrified by her words. "To the kitchen," he answered, almost automatically.

"Si," she said. "It is good. I will wait for you to come. I must go now. Buena suerte."

"Yeah," murmured Don, as the phone went dead. "Good luck to you too." He raised his eyes to Gonzalez. "I'm pretty sure she just promised to drug everyone at the compound with sedatives – this evening, at dinner. Then she'll get Charlie to the kitchen."

Gonzalez raised an eyebrow; then nodded. "Gentlemen, we appear to have a plan. We must hurry – we need to organize an assault."

"Let's go, then," Don growled, striding toward the door. Gonzalez may have answered, but Don didn't know if he did, for all he could hear was the woman's voice in his head. "_I am not sure how much more your brother can endure." _His heart twisted with anxiety. Soon wasn't fast enough.

End, Chapter 20


	21. First, Do No Harm

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity **

**Chapter 21: "First, Do No Harm…" **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Marlita smiled brightly as she sat the fine china delicately on the table. "It's a simple herbal tea," she informed Maria. "It is a favorite blend of mine." It was essentially the truth, so Marlita had no problem saying so. It _was_ simple herbal tea; one she sometimes used herself when she wanted to drop a few pounds. The "slimming tea" was not difficult to find in a small shop in downtown Bogotá that specialized in natural remedies. The capsules of pure senna had been located in the same shop. Although there was already senna in the tea, Marlita had broken apart 12 capsules and added more. The tea would have the same effect without the addition, but it would take longer, and Marlita wasn't sure how much she could get Maria to drink. The results had to be immediate.

The touch of Maria's hand against hers as the cook accepted the tea startled Marlita out of her thoughts, and she turned hastily away to compose herself. "You are very kind," Maria was saying. "With so many extra people to cook for, I have been very busy. It is nice to relax for a moment. Thank you for the tea — and for helping me in the kitchen, earlier. I know you have been busy also, with the sick gringo."

Marlita had filled her own cup of tea only halfway, and she turned now to sit opposite Maria, gripping the cup in her lap. She frowned a little. "Señor Macedo does not allow him the rest he needs. I cannot tend to him while he works, so I busy myself elsewhere." She shrugged. "Besides, anyone can stir a soup, si?"

Maria laughed; then sipped at her tea. She made a slight face of displeasure. "Very bitter...but perhaps it is just me. I have had a slight cold, and it has affected my sense of taste. I noticed you had to add seasoning to the soup -- you do yourself a disservice. You have helped in the kitchen before, so I know."

Marlita demurred. "Maria. I am only happy to be of help, when I can." She pasted on a professional demeanor. "You should have come to me for something. If you have been ill, you should force yourself to drink even more. Hot tea will soothe your throat."

"I'm sure you're right," agreed Maria, and she scrunched up her face and swallowed half the liquid at once.

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Charlie was left alone in the computer room again, the guard who had earlier beaten him his only company. Still, he was careful. Now that he knew Penfield was on site, he knew that his options were limited. Amita's death had broken his spirit – but the threat against his father had pushed him over the edge. His own injuries were forgotten as he entered "P vs. NP" mode. Charlie was no stranger to pain, and his usual method of coping was to throw himself into a project that would keep him up for days, weeks if possible. Even with cracked or even broken ribs, a myriad of bruises and whatever was wrong with his neck – which was affecting both his arms and legs – it was no contest.

Charlie was still going strong when he heard the guard snore.

He had searched the bare walls and high corners of the room earlier, while pretending to stretch his aching muscles, and was relatively certain that there were no cameras. Penfield would be brought in again to check his work later, Charlie was sure…but by then it wouldn't matter.

Charlie had been working on the NSA's secure site most of the day, feeding the patch that would break his own code into the central system and its linked back-ups. By the second snore, he had entered Bob Tompkins' personal and secure IP address. _Tell Don Dad in danger_, he typed rapidly, fingers flying over the keyboard. _Tell both I love them. Cheetah_. He signed off with the nickname Tompkins had bestowed on him in a rare moment of levity. The first time they had worked together, when Charlie was only 21, the older man had been stunned by the speed at which Charlie's mind worked. When the project was completed, Tompkins had got him drunk and christened him "Cheetah." The name had stuck throughout their years of friendship, and Charlie knew that by using it now, Bob would know for sure who was sending this message.

As one finger prepared to tap the final key that would launch the communication into cyberspace, Charlie glanced nervously over his shoulder. He winced as he turned his head, becoming so dizzy that he had to grab the edge of the table with his free hand. The guard sat in a chair that leaned back against the wall, still snoring. His mouth hung open, a thin line of drool escaping, and the sub-machine gun was lax in his grip. For a moment, Charlie wondered if he could overpower him. The guard was much bigger, but he was asleep and in a seated position. Plus, Charlie had the element of surprise. Another wave of vertigo made Charlie squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head back to the computer screen. In his present condition, he knew that such a physical confrontation was suicide. Even if by some miracle Charlie got the upper hand, the noise would only bring more guns and guards down upon the room. No, he decided, opening his eyes again and placing both hands over the keyboard; it was much wiser for him to fight back this way.

Charlie's work with the NSA a year ago had left him very familiar with the inner workings of the Macedo cartel. This was invaluable information. It didn't hurt that he had a photographic memory for certain numerical information. Fingers once again flying, he began to hack into Macedo's offshore accounts – every one that they had known about, a year ago. As he accessed each one, he infiltrated firewalls and planted a phagocytic code into the mainframe. It was a pedestrian time bomb, which he had used on more than one occasion. It would be easy for even Penfield to spot – so Charlie hurried. Marshall would not find this right away, because he would not be looking at these accounts. Macedo would not have him look here until there was a problem – which there would be, in 48 hours, when the binary time bombs deployed. All the information linked to each account would begin to self-destruct. Within an hour of detonation, the money would begin moving bit by bit into other accounts, accounts that Charlie had chosen. The amounts would be small enough to escape detection for a while, but Charlie knew that eventually, it would be seen. He had no doubt that at that point, they would kill him, but it would be long enough for Don to get Dad somewhere safe

Once his father was safe, Charlie would welcome death.

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"Señor Macedo. Forgive me for interrupting _siesta_, but Maria is very ill. From her symptoms, I fear that she had appendicitis. There is nausea, and cramping, a low-grade fever…"

Hector Macedo raised a hand to stop the recitation, as Marlita had known he would. Macedo found such discussion distasteful. "Enough," he commanded. "Spare me the details. Fix her."

"I am truly sorry, sir. Had I been paying more attention, perhaps we would have had time for your personal physician to come to the compound. It is my fault. I'm afraid she will have to be taken to the hospital in town -- I fear appendicitis."

Macedo paced his study, uncertain. Ordinarily, he would let the employee die and have her body dumped in a gutter somewhere. Maria had worked for the Macedo family for years, however. She had first assisted her own mother in the Macedo kitchen. Maria was near Hector's own age, and they had shared something of a friendship in the early years, before he grew to understand that such things were not necessary. Still, he was sentimental enough to bring her to the compound as cook, years ago. She was loyal and good at her job – it would be a shame to lose her over something as mundane as an appendix. He sighed. "Prepare her for transport," he ordered succinctly. "I will send Rafe. You will finish the evening meal."

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Alan perched on the edge of the hotel room bed and blinked owlishly at Don. He and Colby had shown up decked out in the South American equivalent of full riot gear, 'Policía' splashed in yellow across their bulletproof vests. The room resonated with tension, and Alan wrung his hands unconsciously. "You know where he is?" he repeated, to be sure he understood.

Don crossed the few feet of space required so that he could sit next to his father on the bed. He fairly vibrated, and Alan wasn't sure if that was good or bad. He glanced at Larry and Colby, still near the door, for a clue. "We think so, Dad. We hope so. Someone on the inside is working with us. Colby and I are going to be part of the raid tonight, just after sundown."

Alan swallowed and made a noise of distress. One son was already missing and now the other was going to walk into fire. "Donny," he said in dismay, "let the local officials handle this. They don't do things by the FBI's book over here."

Don looked a little nonplussed. "Dad, I could have Charlie back with us before morning. Isn't that what you want?"

Both anger and hurt flashed over Alan's face. "Of course it is!" he protested, standing to look down at his eldest. "But I'm not prepared to trade one son for the other!"

Don stood as well, opening his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by the tone of his cell. He scowled at Alan as he ripped it off his belt, flipping the phone open without checking 'caller ID'. "Eppes," he growled threateningly, turning slightly away from his father.

"Don, I'm glad I caught you. This is Robert Tompkins. I believe I just heard from Charlie."

End, Chapter 21


	22. Call It Sleep

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 22: Call it Sleep**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Rafe paced the small waiting area of the hospital, and fumed. It was not right that a guard of his caliber be assigned such a menial task. Especially not with the important "guest" that they were entertaining at the compound. Yet Macedo had not only directed him to deliver the sniveling cook to medical care, Rafe had instructions to wait until doctors told him what was wrong. For the first time, he began to question his employer's wisdom. The man obviously allowed sentiment to make him weak. Macedo had lived his entire life with private, personal physicians — he could have no idea how long this would take, in a state-run facility.

By his fourth circuit of the room, Rafe's stomach growled loudly and encouraged him to make a decision. It was time for the evening meal - and he was missing it. No matter. Since that cow of a nurse was throwing something together tonight, Rafe knew that he would be better off if he went to the tiny room that passed as a "cafeteria," and had a quick dinner. Surely, it wouldn't be any worse than whatever was being offered at Macedo's compound. When he was finished, he would head back; even if the doctors had not spoken with him yet. Fewer guards were needed at night - but they should all be good ones. Rafe would return for night guard duty. He could claim that he thought his boss would send someone else to the hospital after a few hours anyway, so that the cartel would avoid arousing attention. Somehow, he would make Señor Macedo see the wisdom of this decision.

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Don glared at his father as if he was a perp caught at a crime scene, effectively cutting off any forthcoming comment. He reached for the doorknob and included Larry in his gaze. "You. Two. Not. A. Word." He checked one more time to make sure the curtains of the dingy hotel room were closed; then stepped into the hallway, clicking the door firmly shut behind him.

This was the hard part.

His patented G-Man glare would get him absolutely nowhere with Colby Granger.

Don knew what the situation called for. As distasteful as he ordinarily found it, groveling came very naturally to him at this moment. "Colby. I can't thank you enough for everything you've done - finding Elena, defying Merrick and coming here. I don't want to think about what could have happened to Charlie without your help."

Granger interrupted him, scowl on his face and hands on his hips. "Funny, Eppes - your Dad said almost the same thing. Right before he made me swear on a stack of Torahs that I would bring both of you back from that compound alive. Come on, Don, you need me out there! Plus, your old man scares the shit outta me."

A faint grin almost landed on Don's face but quickly faded. "Trouble is, Granger, I need you everywhere at once. Everybody I come close to trusting is part of this raid. That leaves local Columbian officials looking after my father and Larry." He ran a hand through his hair and stopped to rub the back of his neck. "That is just not good enough, damn it. Charlie risked his life to get me a message. If he says Dad is in danger, I believe him."

Colby sighed in exasperation. "So you turn down a safe house and find the rattiest hotel you can? Don, this place rents by the hour, and I think I saw a cockroach giving a raccoon a piggyback ride in there - what kind of sense does this make?"

Don let frustration edge into his voice. "I told you, Granger, I don't trust the locals. Half these guys are in Macedo's pocket, and you know it. No one will think of looking for them here, under false names. Even if someone gets lucky - that's why I need you here. I need someone I can trust to get my Dad out of here if something goes down!"

Colby continued to argue. "Eppes, you're not thinking straight. For all we know, your Dad has eyes on him already. Plus, my being here will be a dead give-away..." He reddened at the sound of the word "dead," and let his own voice fade away.

Don paled a little himself. "Granger, please. Neither one of us is going to make the raid at this rate - I'm already late. I know you deserve to be in on the takedown, and I know I don't have the right to ask for anything else from you. So I'm begging. Colby, I'm begging."

Granger studied his feet, nearly knocked off them by the raw plea in his team leader's voice. "Ah, shit," he finally mumbled, waving a hand in the general direction of the city teeming outside the squalid hotel. "Go. Go. I guess I should be happy no one thought to pack a chess set." He raised his head, watching Don's already rapidly disappearing back and real fear showed on his face. "Dear God. I hope no one thought to pack a chess set."

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Charlie had finished with Macedo's offshore accounts and was back in the NSA mainframe, methodically destroying his own work. The guard was awake again, and restless, pacing the floor behind him. Charlie let his right hand drop down to his side, and began to flex his fingers. He was beginning to lose the feeling in them. His head jerked up at a quick rap on the door, which he instantly regretted. He could not stop a moan as his neck and shoulder muscles protested.

"Silencio!" shouted the guard, close to his ear. "Silencio!"

The door opened and Marlita stood in the entrance, looking a little worse for wear, herself. "Leave him alone," she commanded, and Charlie's eyes widened when she reached out a hand to bat at the sub-machine gun as if swatting at a fly. "He will never finish whatever you have him do, if you kill him first! Besides," she added, her voice harried, "I do not have time for your _machismo_. I cannot do Maria's work and my own as well." She bustled around the guard, shooing him toward the door. "_Ándale, __ándale, _oaf! The señoritas are serving the evening meal!"

The guard balked. "_El gringo_…."

Marlita sighed heavily and hefted her formidable bulk at the guard. "I must attend to him, now," she said sarcastically. "I have been 'cook', and now must return to 'nurse' – no rest. Señor Macedo allows me no rest." She pushed forward toward the door, nearly causing the guard to stumble. "I have taken some soup to his room, and he will eat there. I will watch him. Tsk!" She looked with disdain in Charlie's direction. "Do you think he has enough left in him to take on Marlita?"

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The thick soup – more of a stew, really – was a house favorite. Maria's mother had often served it when Macedo was a boy, and ordinarily he ate heartily. Maria must not have had much of a start of the recipe when she became ill, however, and it did not taste quite right this evening. A little bitter. Still, a good leader set an example. So Hector Macedo forced down some of the soup. He regarded Marshall Penfield across the table – the American didn't seem all that fond of the evening repast, either. Macedo suppressed an evil grin. He found Penfield even more distasteful than the soup. First he misrepresented his own abilities, and failed in his assignment. Then, after he convinced Hector to let him live and promised to deliver Eppes, he failed at that as well. The sniveling fool had actually called for help – and he had almost managed to derail the entire operation. Most unforgivable, he had claimed an innocent victim. Hector had seen Amita's photograph on the television news, and in the newspapers, and his opinion of Penfield had dropped another notch. Now, he shoved the tureen of soup across the table forcefully, visibly startling the yawning Penfield. "Please!" Macedo's voice was cordial and inviting, even if his heart was not. "Excellent soup, tonight – this has always been one of my favorites." The truth of that statement irked him a little – Marlita had ruined a nice supper – and he spoke louder as a challenge to all at the table. "You shall offend me if you don't eat well." He observed to see which employee reached for a tureen first, and resolved to remember the guard at Christmastime.

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"I'm not really very hungry," murmured Charlie when he spied the covered bowl on the small table in the bedroom that had been his, at the estate.

Marlita shut the door behind them and hurried around him, hands waving in the air. "No matter, no matter," she whispered breathlessly. "Come to the bed; let me work on your neck again."

He blinked at her, looking around for a camera he might have missed on his earlier searches. Why was she whispering? He didn't see her hand come at him and grunted in surprise when she latched onto his arm and started pulling him toward the bed. "I am sorry, Little One," she said, continuing to whisper. "I cannot give you a muscle relaxant tonight. You must remain alert, and ready to travel. I will do what I can to ease your discomfort….Hurry! We do not have much time!"

Charlie stumbled after her, exhaustion and pain muddling his mind. "Travel?" he questioned. As the word reverberated around the room, his heart skipped a beat. Following her lead, he began to whisper. "Marlita…what are you going to do?"

Diego took his position at the northwest corner of the property, and yawned. He shook his entire body, and tried to force himself to a level of alertness he did not feel. The last thing he needed was to be found asleep on the job. He yawned again, peering into the darkness at nothing. Damn. The first night back after a few days off was always like this.

He looked to the left, the right, and slowly pivoted to check out the entire perimeter. Only Julio was within eyesight, even with the night vision goggles – and _he_ was leaning on his automatic rifle as if using it to prop himself up. Diego yawned again, and squatted to the ground. Since Julio was obviously not in a position to call out anyone else, perhaps it would not matter if Diego sat down – just for a moment. He would not be required to help relieve the guards posted closest to the road for a few hours, yet – they were due to take their evening break and reheated meal at midnight. Diego settled on the ground, laying the automatic weapon across his lap, and grimaced through yet another yawn. Poor _bastidos_ – they had no idea that dinner was hardly worth the effort, tonight. At least they wouldn't have Señor Macedo there watching them. Diego's last happy thought, before he dropped off to sleep, was of the plump señorita he had spent most of the last week with, in Bogotá.

Now, _she_ could cook.

And she wasn't bad in the kitchen, either.

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Marlita was whispering directly in his ear, now. Still, Charlie could barely hear her over the pounding of his heart.

He had followed her out of the room and through a myriad of back hallways with which he was not familiar. They were passing several small rooms, and his benefactor had stood him in a small alcove while she entered one. Now she was back, whispering in his ear. "_Bueno_," she hissed. "We are in the rooms of the household staff – the young girls who help Maria stay here. They are both sleeping. _Bueno_." She reached for his arm and propelled him forward. "Continue to the end of the hall – that will bring us to the kitchen. _La policía_ will be here soon."

Charlie reached out his own hand, and touched her arm lightly. "Marlita," he whispered. "_Gracias_. Thank you, for helping me."

She frowned, and shook her head. "No, no…. Do not thank me, yet. Save your thanks for safety. Come, now."

Still, he hesitated. "Why? Why do you help me?"

She looked nervously behind her, then back to Charlie a little impatiently. "Macedo is an evil man. He has ruined many lives – including mine." Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "I saw the video. A beautiful girl…_bonita, bonita_…" She ceased whispering, her voice suddenly loud in the hall. "It is time to stop him, Señor Charlie."

End, Chapter 22


	23. The Alamo

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 23: The Alamo**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Don had to admit, the Colombian militia seemed well organized. After leaving his father and Larry with Colby at the hotel, he had broken every traffic law in at least two countries, and had caught up with the convoy just before the vans reached their destination. They had approached the compound from the rear – from the jungle side – and pulled into a turn-off a few miles away. Unloading quickly, within moments they had melted into the undergrowth and the vans pulled away, leaving only empty highway, gleaming in the moonlight.

They pushed through the jungle moving slowly, quietly. The undergrowth was thick and hard to navigate, and they had at least three miles of it to get through before they came to the compound. Don understood the reason for the slow progress – it was impossible to move both quickly and quietly through the thick growth, and they had no idea how far out Macedo posted his sentries. The fact that he comprehended the reason for it didn't make it any easier, however; every fiber in his being wanted to charge through the night, to get to his brother as soon as possible. He fought down the impatience, and clutched the Colombian issue automatic weapon tightly, as he crept through the jungle, listening and watching.

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The two guards at the gate recognized Rafe's Hummer, and one of them barked a command toward the guard hut, at the side, which housed the controls. "Open the gate! _Abierto_!" He shot an impatient look at the guards in the hut.

One of them looked at his partner, who sat at the controls, his head nodding. "Manuel, it is Rafe. _Abierto_!" He shook Manuel, whose head lolled, and the man slumped. The guard caught him and eased him to the floor, then fumbled with the control for the gate, just as Rafe drove up to it. It began to open, and the guard breathed a sigh of relief. None of them wanted to anger Rafe. He looked at Manuel in disgust. Obviously, the man had been drinking at dinner, and now he was sleeping. The rest of them not only had to wait until late for their dinner, they now had to cover for this ignorant sloth.

The other guards were getting a tongue-lashing from Rafe for being so slow, and they looked back at him with accusatory stares. He shook his head, tight-lipped. He would tell them later about Manuel. As irritated as he was with the drunkard, he didn't want to see him shot.

Rafe rolled his eyes with impatience and gunned the gas pedal as the gates slowly finished opening, and the Hummer lurched through them. The evening had already been a waste of time; he had waited an eternity at the hospital for the doctor's report, only to find that the idiot of a cook had apparently taken some kind of home remedy that had made her sick. Then he encountered the dullards at the gate – the whole staff was inept. They were becoming lax; he would have to speak with Macedo about this.

He swung the Hummer into his parking spot, and stepped out, striding toward the main house. He would meet with Hector, as was their custom in the evening, and give his report. They then, as always, would indulge in some fine liquor and Cuban cigars. At least he had that to look forward to.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie staggered a little as they began to move again, and Marlita grasped his arm firmly. His appendages didn't seem to be working quite right; his arms and legs were slow to respond, and weak. Pain was a constant companion now; it radiated down his back, through his limbs, and it was all he could do to shuffle through the hallways, on his way to wherever Marlita was taking them.

He still wasn't sure what she could be up to – he figured the chances of making it through the house without being found were slim, and even if they did, surely the alarm would be given before they made it out of the compound. He was willing to try however – not out of any great need to save his own life, which no longer seemed worth living – but if he could escape, perhaps it would take away the reason for them to come after his father. He glanced at Marlita as they moved through a dim hallway; her eyes were glittering with some unknown emotion, and held an almost ferocious conviction, her ample jaw set with determination. She had enough sense of purpose for the both of them, Charlie thought wearily, and he let her lead him through a doorway into a dining room.

There he came up short, gaping at the sight in front of him. A large dinner party sat at the table, every one of them either asleep or dead. Asleep, he determined, as one of the men snored, and he picked up the rise and fall of Macedo's chest. Penfield slumped forward, the side of his face resting in his salad, a blob of mashed avocado on his nose.

Marlita grinned proudly at Charlie's bewildered expression, her eyes flashing. "Come," she said, "in here." She led the way through the dining room, and pushed through the ornate double doors into a short hallway, which opened into the kitchen. Three men in white; the kitchen help, sprawled on the floor, deep in slumber. "We wait here," Marlita announced, as Charlie stared at them, dumbfounded.

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Lieutenant Gonzalez motioned quietly, and the men gathered around him in the darkness. Don took a quick glance at Lieutenant Espinoza, the Chilean police officer who had questioned the prisoners with him. He looked a little rattled, a bit out of his element, and Don wondered if he looked the same. They were both more used to street warfare than jungle combat. He listened carefully as Gonzalez gave orders in Spanish; then repeated them in English for Don and the DEA agents.

"We are in position now," said Gonzalez. "My team on the other side of the compound is ready also. They will provide distraction, by firing first and drawing compound guards toward their direction. Then we will press forward." He turned and pointed. They were on a hill, and through a small break in the jungle growth, they could see the buildings of the compound, glistening in the moonlight. It was large and sprawling, and Don breathed a silent prayer of thanks that they knew where Charlie was going to be. It was now obvious, in a place of that size, that without that knowledge, it would have been impossible to find him in time.

Don could see the house, and around it were several other buildings, and a covered walkway that led to what looked like a hangar. Beyond it sat an airstrip; on it was a small plane, and in front of that sat a private jet. The fact that the jet was outside on the tarmac struck a nerve – was Macedo planning to leave soon? What did that mean? Would he leave without getting what he wanted from Charlie? And if not, if Macedo already had what he wanted… Don's heart lurched, and he forced his mind back to what Gonzalez was saying. '_Pay attention_,' he thought desperately, '_don't screw this up – Charlie's life depends on it_.'

"Behind us is the main house," Gonzalez was saying quietly. "The part that projects forward closest to us is the kitchen. If our contact did her job, that is where we will find Dr. Eppes." Don craned his neck, staring at that wing of the building, light spilling from the windows, which looked like tiny patches of yellow from this distance.

"First, though," said Gonzalez, "we must breach the perimeter. According to plan we will drive a wedge at the closest point, which you can see there." He pointed to a section of wall. Behind, it they could see the figure of a guard, strolling in the moonlight. "You can see that there are guards on the inside, but there will also be guards stationed outside the wall, in the undergrowth. Are there any questions?" At their silence, he nodded. "Be alert, and take your positions. We will advance on my command."

The men began to fall into formation; the point men first, followed by the main part of the wedge, who began to fan out sideways in the undergrowth. Don took his place at the back of the formation with the DEA agents, Espinoza, and two of the militia. They were the extraction team; it was their job to make their way through the opening provided by the soldiers in front of them, and get to the kitchen. The slight rustling noises subsided as the men reached their positions, and they waited in the jungle; the only sound now discernable to Don was the faint breeze through the trees, and the thudding of his own heart.

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Rafe thought nothing of the silence at first. The house was huge, and with the nurse doing the cooking, it was quite possible that dinner had been served late, and everyone was still in the dining room. He headed toward the other side of the house; perhaps he would be in time for dessert.

As he reached the hallway to the dining room, however, the silence suddenly became oppressive. At this point, he should hear them through the doors - talking, the clank of utensils. He stopped dead and listened; then suddenly surged forward, bursting through the dining room doors, and drew up short, staring; stunned.

He paused only for a moment; then he was at Macedo's side, feeling for a pulse. At his touch, Macedo moaned a little, and Rafe patted his face. "Jefe," he hissed, "Jefe, wake up!" A noise from the kitchen whipped his head around, and he drew his pistol, creeping toward the doors in a crouch. The creep turned into a run, and he burst through the doors, his pistol leveled. Marlita and the gringo turned to face him, fear on their faces. The nurse had a cupboard door open, and was obviously trying desperately to hide the doctor; they now both stood frozen, staring at him.

"You traitorous bitch!" hissed Rafe, his face dark with fury, as he came around the stainless steel island that stood between them. "I warned Macedo that he shouldn't keep you."

Marlita spoke, trying to sound calm, but her voice trembled a little. "You need to put the gun away, Rafe. It is already too late." As if to verify her words, gunfire popped on the far side of the compound, and Rafe's eyes turned unconsciously toward the sound. Marlita took advantage of the momentary distraction, and seized a pot on the counter next to her, winging it toward Rafe's head, and grabbed Charlie's arm.

Rafe fended off the pot with a raised forearm, hissing as it hit, and without missing a beat, re-aimed, and fired. Charlie stared, stunned, as the gun went off, and felt Marlita's hand jerk, and dig painfully into his arm. She released it, staggering, as he turned toward her, her face blank with shock, and he watched as she toppled backwards, a red stain spreading like flower on her ample chest. He dropped to her side; his head was spinning and his ears were roaring, but he could hear his voice calling her name, to no avail - her eyes were already sightless, staring at the ceiling.

A strong hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him to his feet, and he gasped in pain as Rafe steered him roughly toward the counter, and pushed him against it. He saw Rafe's arm reach past him for a kitchen towel, then the man leaned his body against Charlie's, forcing him into the counter, pinning him. Charlie tried pushing away, but his arms were far too weak, and Rafe responded by leaning into him harder, as he tore the towel in two lengthwise, and tied the two pieces together. He jerked Charlie's arms behind him, and the rough movement forced an involuntary cry of pain, as Charlie slumped forward on the counter, gasping as Rafe tied his wrists behind his back.

Another towel was forced into his mouth and tied behind his head, and only then did Rafe pull him away from the counter. Charlie immediately sagged to his knees; his head swimming from the knife-like pain in his arms and back, and Rafe shoved him with a boot. He toppled over next Marlita, lying on his side facing her, barely aware of Rafe binding his feet with another towel. Then suddenly Rafe was gone, and they were alone. Charlie stared at Marlita's profile in front of him, her jaw slack, her unseeing eyes raised heavenward. Dimly, he heard new gunfire start on the side of the compound closest to them, but it didn't register – his mind was dulled by pain, and grief. Yet another person was dead, due to him. The thought brought a memory of Amita, and he closed his eyes, as the tears streamed down his face.

Rafe had charged back into the dining room, where some of the occupants, including Macedo, had begun to stir, groggily. He pulled one of Hector's arms around his shoulders, and with a grunt, lifted Macedo from his seat. "Come, Jefe, we must go," he urged, and Macedo blinked and staggered. Somehow, he kept his feet, as Rafe pulled him through the dining room, and then stumbled through the kitchen to the outside door.

A fierce firefight was raging at the perimeter closest to them, and Rafe yelled as two guards ran past, on their way toward the battle. "Stop! Over here!" They ran forward, and Rafe barked instructions. "The _Jefe_ has been drugged – take him to his jet, now." They obligingly took Macedo's arms. "Get him in the jet - I am going to get the gringo – they will not shoot at the plane if we have him. Try to find the pilot." They nodded and turned, taking a path through the outbuildings toward the hangar, Macedo stumbling between them like a drunk.

Rafe dashed back into the kitchen; and with a slice of his switchblade, cut the towel from around Charlie's ankles, and pulled him to his feet. "Move," he hissed sharply, and Charlie stumbled and sagged helplessly to his knees again, his legs not responding. Rafe cursed and put his hands under Charlie's shoulders, dragging him through the door, and out into the night.

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Breaching the perimeter had been far easier than Gonzalez had expected; there were less men there than he would have thought. He had no way of knowing that they had crept by the some of outside guards, drugged, asleep in the darkness. Now, though, more of Macedo's men were coming up through the compound to join the fight. The extraction team was almost over the wall, and Gonzalez gave Don an encouraging push as he ran past, shouting, "Go, Go! _Ándale_!"

Don led his team straight for the kitchen; bullets were beginning to fly around them, but they were answered from Gonzalez' team from behind, and Don's team reached the relative safety of one of the outbuildings within minutes. They pulled up against it; then deployed, firearms ready, surging around it and toward the last bit of space between them and the kitchen, covering each other. They exploded through the door into the kitchen, Don leading, and he dashed through it, looking frantically at the bodies of the kitchen help, stirring on the floor. He came around the island and saw the body of an older Hispanic woman, and with a lurch of his heart, realized that it must be their contact. He knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse in spite of the obvious gunshot wound to her chest, but there was nothing.

"Dead," he said, and looked up at Espinoza, then around the room once more, wildly. "He's not here – we need to spread out." Panic clutched at him even as he said it – Charlie could be anywhere in the complex.

Espinoza nodded. "I'll take the house." With a jerk of his head at the two Colombians, he took off through the dining room doors.

Don leapt to his feet and headed back for the outside door, calling over his shoulder to the DEA agents. "Spread out, search the outside – check the outbuildings!" He paused as he got past the first outbuilding, trying to get his bearings. The side of the house, the outbuildings, and the hangar beyond them was a dark maze of sheds and shadow. Far away at the end of it, the lights blazed on the runway, making the space between appear even darker. Don could see the occasional dim form silhouetted against the runway lights, flitting between the outbuildings, and then his eye was caught by something else.

Two guards suddenly appeared on the lighted field; they were guiding a stumbling figure in a suit toward the jet. They were too far to see clearly, but Don knew instinctively that it must be Macedo. Some of Gonzalez' men had seen them too, and they turned and ran for the field firing, with excited cries. Don started to move that direction, jogging between the dark outbuildings, then froze, as two more figures appeared on the lighted tarmac.

One man dragging another; and Don could see the slight, slumped figure, the dark hair. "Oh my God," he breathed, as another man ran up to help the first, and between them they began dragging Charlie toward the plane. The Colombian militia screamed orders to halt and bursts of automatic weapon fire filled the night. Don began to run, heedless of where his feet fell, his eyes glued to Charlie. God, they were almost at the plane – he was too far away –

One of the men holding Charlie reeled and fell, and Don realized in horror that the Colombian forces were shooting to kill. "Don't shoot!" he screamed, his legs pumping, trying to be heard over the din of the firefight. "Don't shoot!"

He opened his mouth to scream again as he ran past an outbuilding, but it was torn from him in a strangled grunt, as the butt of a rifle slammed into his gut. He saw stars and went down hard on his back, his head reeling, barely able to make out the dark form standing over him, or the ominous click of the rifle bolt, as it drove a shell into the chamber.

End, Chapter 23


	24. The Wild Blue Yonder

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 24: The Wild Blue Yonder**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Penfield froze as the dining room doors exploded inward and men rushed into the room. He left his face in his salad and closed his eyes, playing dead. The feet paused for a moment as Espinoza and the men with him took in the scene; then they tore off into the bowels of the house. Penfield sat up gingerly, and wiped feebly at the green mush on his face. He stared around him in a daze, but he was aware enough to realize that Macedo was gone, and that there was some kind of battle going on outside. One thing was certain; he was going to get the hell out of there. He rose, tottering, then staggered for the doors to the kitchen, his face still adorned with green slime. Outside, he took in deep gulps of air, then turned away from the running figures and the sound of gunfire and stumbled around to the front of the house. In the confusion, no one was manning the gates, and he looked around furtively, and headed for his car. Moments later, the vehicle, headlights off, was weaving its way out of the gates.

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Macedo shook his head vigorously, trying to dispel the dizziness, and assessed the situation. Through the open door of the jet, he could see Rafe and another guard dragging the professor toward the plane, and he nodded in approval. They would not shoot at the plane with the professor on board – they could take off safely, and dump the gringo overboard when they were out of range.

He turned, looking for the pilot, and realized with a curse that he wasn't there. It would be up to him and Rafe. Both of them knew how to fly – they had learned to pilot small planes as teens, transporting cocaine for his father. Both of them had flown the jet before, as well, and Macedo clambered awkwardly, dizzily, for the pilot's seat. He'd get the engines started, then let Rafe take over.

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Rafe panted, perspiration running down his face, as the bullets rained around them. He was extremely grateful for the guard who had run out to help him – the man would get a large bonus for this, he would see to it. He flicked a glance filled with irritation and fear over his shoulder at the Colombian militia. Idiots – they didn't realize they were shooting at the man they came to save. He felt a sudden jerk; then heard the guard on the other side of the prisoner grunt in pain and surprise. The doctor slumped against him, dead weight, as the guard fell heavily to the tarmac, a bullet in his back. Rafe adjusted his grip on the professor, leaving the guard behind. He was almost at the plane – he could do this on his own.

He heard the sound of the jet engines now – good -- Macedo must have recovered enough to start the plane. They were only feet from the doors, and Rafe pulled up on the professor impatiently. "On your feet!" he rasped, and heaved Charlie to a standing position.

Charlie gasped at the pain the movement generated and tried to stand, legs trembling, but before he could take a step a new pain, a white-hot searing bolt of agony, hit the back of his thigh.

The professor arched backwards involuntarily with a cry of pain through his gag, and as Rafe struggled to hold him upright, he felt the hit, a sickening smack, like a punch in his upper chest. He staggered backward, releasing his grip on the doctor, gasping in shock.

Swimming in a sea of pain, Charlie felt his support give way, and for a split second, he felt himself falling; he saw the plane before him and the stars above it retreating with a rush. His body was arched with his hands still behind him; the back of his head hit the concrete first, and his vision exploded in a blaze of white, then darkness.

Rafe staggered toward the plane and somehow pulled himself through the open door, leaving the professor lying on the tarmac. He managed to get in, and laid there panting; then with a huge effort rolled away from the door, and pushed himself up, staggering for the cockpit.

Macedo saw the blood on Rafe's chest and swore, hitting a button and closing the door of the aircraft, and increased the rotation of the engines. He blinked furiously at the controls, trying to clear his head. He felt Rafe's hand on his shoulder.

"_Jefe_ – you are in no condition to fly – I will take it." Macedo looked up at his lieutenant and knew he was right. The runway was dancing and wavering in front of his eyes, as were the controls. He still needed time for the drug to wear off.

He rose from the seat, guiding Rafe into it. "You are hurt," he protested, but Rafe waved him off, as he sat heavily.

They exchanged a look, filled with meaning; Rafe had only moments left, and they both knew it. The only question was, would he stay alive long enough to get them out of there?

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Don lay prone, frozen, as the barrel of the rifle began to swing toward his head. His attacker, one of Macedo's guards, was straddling Don's legs, and he did what any other man would reasonably do, if his head was about to be blown from his body. He kicked straight up, and put his foot where it counted.

The guard let out a strange high-pitched woof, and doubled over. Don reached up and grabbed the wavering gun barrel, and scrambled to his feet behind it, wrenching it out of the man's grasp. One quick jab to the head with the rifle butt, and the guard went down like a bag of rocks. He'd be feeling _that_ in the morning.

It had taken only moments to deal with his attacker, but by the time he turned his attention back to the field, the jet door was closing, and it was taxiing down the runway. His heart dropped with a sickening lurch – they had made the plane. The militia was still shooting, and the sound galvanized him into action. He sprinted toward the tarmac, screaming at the militia, imploring them not to fire. "He's on the plane! Stop shooting!"

Even as he ran, he saw the plane lift from the runway. For a moment, it looked like a successful take-off; the small jet rose with amazing speed, and Don came to stop at the edge of the runway, gasping for air. Suddenly, it dipped sharply sideways, and as Don watched in horror, pitched away from them toward the tree line beyond the airstrip. Engines screaming in protest, it slammed with horrific force into the base of the trees, and everyone on the ground averted their faces, wincing as the light and heat from the resulting fireball reached their faces.

For a moment, no one moved; there was nothing, no sound except the hideous cracking and hiss of flames from across the field. Don staggered forward across the runway, toward the blaze, shock giving way to agony. "Charlie!" he screamed, and the stagger turned into a lurching run, but he was brought up short by a strong hand that grasped his arm. The abrupt halt to his momentum swung him around, and he found himself staring at Lieutenant Espinoza, who, breathing heavily from his dash to stop Don, looked back at him sadly.

Espinoza shook his head and said something; the words were garbled by shock, but Don made out something on the order of "too dangerous… no survivors," and he felt his legs wobble, as grief overtook him.

He sank to his knees on the tarmac. "God, no," he moaned. The next word came out in a whisper, as the tears started. "Charlie…"

The shout behind him didn't even register at first, but then Espinoza was pulling him urgently to his feet, and they were stumbling across the runway, to where some men were gathered over a body. A body with its hands tied behind its back, gagged, with dark curly hair… Don gasped in recognition, and broke away from Espinoza's hand, sprinting toward the group, and fell on his knees at Charlie's side. "Charlie…," he pulled frantically at the gag with trembling hands, and felt himself being drawn away, gently.

He was regaining enough of his rational mind to realize that the impartial men around his brother were doing a much better job of taking care of him, and he sat shaking, his eyes fixed on Charlie's face as they removed the gag and the towel binding his hands. One man was taking a pulse, and looked up and nodded. "He's alive."

The words brought a rush of relief, but as his mind cleared, and Don saw the pool of blood under the curly head, and the even larger pool under his brother's leg, terror returned. "We need an ambulance," he said urgently, looking around, and Lieutenant Gonzalez spoke from behind him.

"We have choppers on the way from Bogotá; I called as soon as we sustained the first casualties – they will be here in minutes." As if to verify what he was saying, the distant thrumming of helicopter blades sounded in the distance. A medic had arrived with his bag, and was doing a quick assessment of Charlie's injuries. He turned him slightly on his side, and Don could see the ragged hole in the back of his brother's thigh, streaming blood. The medic grabbed gauze pads from his bag and wrapped the limb with the towel that had bound Charlie's hands, to hold the pads in place. He spoke in rapid Spanish, and one of the men pushed down on the wound, applying pressure.

Don could stand it no longer, and moved forward toward his brother. He longed to pull Charlie into his arms, but he knew that it was better for him to be prone, so he settled for holding his hand. It was cold, and as pale as his brother's face, and Don swallowed, and lifted his eyes to the night sky, praying that the helicopters would arrive soon.

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Colby hesitated, then shrugged and chose the Italian-looking piece — the one with the horse's head. He gripped it tightly as his hand hovered over the thing on Larry's team with all the pointy edges. What was that again? A castle? "So I can _king_ you now, right?"

Larry's eyes widened with disbelief, and his head began to shake as a hand crept toward one ear. "Oh, dear. No, no, Colby. You're thinking of _'Checkers'_. My dear fellow, have you been playing _Checkers_ all this time?"

Alan, too antsy to sit and pacing the small hotel room in small, measured paces, paused behind Larry's chair and smiled. "I've got bad news for you, Fleinhardt. He's not even playing the same game you are - and he's still about to win!"

Larry started and regarded the board on the small table between himself and Colby Granger. He tilted his head, first to the left, and then to the right. Eventually he sighed. "Alan appears to be correct. My powers of concentration are apparently...altered, at the moment." He looked up and met Alan's gaze. "I confess, I did not even realize he was playing _Checkers_."

Alan frowned, crossed his arms in front of his chest and resumed pacing. "They should be back by now," he grumbled. "What's taking so long?" He whirled on Colby, suddenly accusatory. "Don never should have gone out to that compound without you for back-up! It's ridiculous, leaving you here as a, as a, as a GLORIFIED BABYSITTER for two..." His tirade was cut off by the sharp trill of Colby's phone. The cell lay next to the chess board on top of the table, and the three men regarded it with equal parts relief and trepidation.

"That's Don," Colby said unnecessarily, reaching toward the cell. Startled, he jerked his hand back when Alan slapped it away.

With the element of surprise in his favor, it was easy for the older man to reach the phone first. "Donny?" he cried, flipping the phone open and bringing it to his ear. "Don, are you all right? Where's your brother? Is Charlie with you? Let me talk to Charlie. You're all right, aren't you son?" Both Colby and Larry stood, pushing their chairs back awkwardly. They both noticed Alan's vise-like grip on the cell phone and white knuckles at the same time, and looked at each other uneasily. "I...I understand," the elder Eppes said in a wavering voice. When he next spoke, his voice was hard, and he used a tone with which neither one of his friends was familiar. "You understand this, Don Alan Eppes. If you _do not_ tell me where to go, I will spend the next five hours in a cab touring all the hospitals and clinics in Bogotá until I find you both. You can give Colby directions and let him get me there safely, or you can let me wander all over South America looking -- that's your choice. _My_ choice is already made." After a few seconds of relative silence in the heavy air of the hotel room, Colby found the cell shoved in his direction. Alan did not even wait for him to grasp it, but simply dropped the phone in mid-air and spun on his heel, headed for the door. "You get directions," he ordered. "Larry, help me hail a cab. Charlie's been shot."

End, Chapter 24


	25. Limbo

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 25: Limbo**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

It was a remarkably well-equipped facility – especially considering the fact that it did not exist. The clinic was American-run, American-staffed, and completely off the books. It served as the South American medical hub for all military personnel – the ones in uniform as well as those who were as invisible on paper as the clinic itself. Don had been so focused on Charlie he hadn't even noticed when the ranking DEA presence at the scene had shouted into the chopper pilot's ear, directing him to the clandestine clinic. Eyes drinking in everything that was done to his brother, every move that anyone even close to him made, Don barely even registered the passage of time. The chopper did not reach the helipad at the clinic for over half an hour.

He was arguing with a decidedly American nurse – a buff buzz-cut blonde who looked as if he'd misplaced his football field – for almost five minutes before it dawned on him that something was out of place in this picture. "I need to be with my brother," he insisted again, pushing against the massive wall that was _'Bruce,'_ "he might wake up! He'll be afraid, he'll…."

Bruce didn't push back, but he didn't move a millimeter, either. "Agent, you need to let the doctors help him. We have to examine him, run tests. The longer I stand here arguing with you, the longer I am not in that room with him." He winked at Don, which was disconcerting enough to jump-start his brain. "I'm a very good trauma nurse, honey – you should probably let me do my job."

Don took a step backwards, reeling slightly, and blinked owlishly. "Did you just call me _'honey'_?" He looked around, noting the bright, modern facility for the first time. "What the hell is this place?"

Bruce grinned. "Sweetheart, you know the drill. 'Don't ask, don't tell.'" He waved a suddenly limp wrist at Don and huffed out a laugh. "That's our only rule around here – works for me _and_ for the clinic! Trust me, sugar; you're in a good place. The best place your brother could be, right now." He tilted his head meaningfully. "As long as you let us take care of him, that is."

Don rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Our father is waiting in Bogotá," he murmured. "I have to get him word…."

Bruce indicated the small waiting area with another wave of his hand. "You'll find a phone in there," he shared. "We might be in the middle of the jungle, but we're not heathens." A white-coated woman rushed past them and pushed into the exam room where Charlie had been taken. Clipped, indiscriminate orders floated out the slowly closing door, and Bruce smiled at Don again, this time with true feeling. "If he's coming from Bogotá, you'd better call him now," he suggested softly. "It takes over two hours to drive here from there."

Don felt his heart skip a beat, and wondered idly if the workout he'd given his cardiac muscle tonight would eventually cause it to give up and quit. "What are you saying?" he asked. He meant to yell the question at Bruce as if he was a suspect in an interrogation room, but the words came out a strained whisper instead.

Bruce reached out a beefy hand and gently angled Don so that he was facing the waiting area. "I'm just saying…the sooner your father is on the road, the better."

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Marshall Penfield was relieved beyond belief when the ticket agent barely looked at his passport and waved him through the gate. Unbelievable, undeniable luck. Somehow, he was getting out of the country before anyone official connected him to Macedo; or at least before anyone got around to doing anything about it. The adrenaline rush created by his escape from the compound had cleared his head a little, and he was beginning to remember tiny bytes of information. Waiting impatiently to return his rental car and catch a shuttle to the airport, for instance, a sudden streamline video of Don in Colombian riot gear played dizzily through his head. Eppes was part of the raid on Macedo. Penfield had to reason that since he, personally, was sleeping in his salad for at least the first part of the assault, Eppes may have seen him. He didn't need Charlie's help to determine the odds.

He smiled grimly on his way to the terminal, sardined into the back of a van with far more people than it was designed to hold. He didn't need Charlie's help _at all_. It was just an unfortunate...fluke...that he had not been able to break the bastard's codes and get Macedo's money moving again. He lifted his chin defiantly. After all, he had foreseen the eventual outcome and prepared for it _all by himself_. Waiting for him in a locker at Kennedy was his new identity: Driver's License, Social Security card, Passport -- the whole nine yards. There was even a credit card to help him get through until he accessed his off-shore account. He had known 'Marshall Penfield' would most likely disappear in - or immediately after - South America, so he had funneled most of his existing assets and the down-payment from Macedo into another account, under his new name. He frowned slightly, hating Dr. Charles Eppes more with each passing minute. It was _his_ fault that Marshall Penfield had not made a significant amount of his own money by now. The little weasel had taken everything Marshall should have had, over the years. Even when Marshall finally started to make a name for himself in the mathematical community by debunking the Eppes Convergence - ah, that was sweet, while it lasted - the freakin' little genius had wriggled his way to the top of that heap, as well...thoroughly discrediting Marshall on the way.

Yes, his mind reiterated, his head nodding at no one and everyone, everything was all Eppes' fault. He hoped the raid had gone horribly wrong, and the little runt had ended up dead. With his own future set, he didn't even care if Macedo's entire operation was blown out of the water; in fact, he would no doubt be safer with Macedo rotting in prison somewhere.

He did not wish the same fate on Charlie.

Dr. Charles Edward Eppes?

Marshall just wanted him dead.

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Don had only tried to convince his father not to come out of habit.

With Macedo cremated at the end of his own runway, he hoped Alan was relatively safe. Charlie had been doing what Macedo wanted. Tompkins had phoned Don just that morning with solid information - Charlie was breaking his own programming, and cartel money was beginning to flow, again. Undoubtedly, the son of a bitch had threatened Charlie's family in order to get what he wanted. Since Charlie was delivering, it was unlikely that a hit had actually been ordered on Alan; Macedo would want to keep him alive, in order to keep his threat alive.

At least, that's what Don hoped.

In the end, even believing that, he had still let Alan have his way too easily. Don had caved to his father's pressure almost immediately and given Colby directions to the clinic. As he sat alone in the corner of the small waiting room, listening to his own shallow breath and anticipating their arrival, he could admit why, too. He had caved because he wanted Alan with him. He needed his father's strength, his father's positive outlook, his father's resolute refusal to entertain the possibility that Charlie was not going to be all right. Don would cling to that, and he would not share the pictures that haunted him. He would not tell Alan that it was not possible to leave so much of yourself behind on the tarmac, and still be okay. He would not remind Alan of the beatings Charlie had taken in prison. He would refrain from wondering out loud how many times Charlie had been sexually assaulted. Don would not question where Charlie would find the will to live without Amita, if he by some miracle survived his physical wounds.

He would keep those thoughts to himself, and he would stand tall next to his father, and he would present his stoicism as strength. Only _he_ would know how weak he really was. Only _he_ would understand the extent to which he relied on the faith of his father. And as God was his witness, only _he_ would feel the fear that overwhelmed his heart now.

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When Charlie had first begun thrashing on the examination table, Dr. Remini was concerned that his head injury was causing some sort of seizure. Even though a preliminary exam did not indicate an actual skull fracture, the doctor knew that at the very least the patient's brain had bounced off the walls of his head, and was undoubtedly swelling. An MRI would indicate such. Plus, there might be a hairline fissure undetectable to the naked eye — the movements were odd. The young man did not appear any nearer a conscious state than he had been before, and while his torso vibrated nearly off the table, his arms and legs moved sluggishly, and out of synch. Remini was somewhat relieved that the GSW to his thigh seemed to be a through-and-through involving soft tissue only. He would order a total-body MRI, and confirm that also. He wanted to stay away from major surgery and heavy anesthesia, if at all possible, so he hoped there was no bone involvement. The wound was still serious enough to require a local and some careful debridement. Later, they could discover nerve damage and have to operate anyway. "Is he still shocky?" he demanded, of no one is particular and studying the jerking patient. A hand crept into his line of sight and lightly touched the chest mottled with bruises before traveling upward toward the patient's face.

"Yes, doctor." It was Bruce's voice, and Remini was glad his best trauma nurse was back in the room and working with the team. "He's cool and clammy to touch. Pulse is 130, resps are 36."

The doctor scowled. "Hang another bag of O neg," he ordered. "We need to get him stable enough for X-ray." Blood loss, from the GSW as well as the two-inch split in the back of his head, had led to hypovolemic shock. Remini knew that this alone could kill the patient. He watched as Bruce hung another bag and clipped out another order. "Squeeze it in," he instructed, regarding again the patchwork of injuries on his patient. New bruises on top of old ones...obviously this young man had endured much to end up where he was. Remini was not about to let him go now.

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Colby paced the helipad, for lack of anywhere else to go, cell phone to his ear. He didn't for a moment regret anything he had done - except maybe staying in the hotel room. Maybe if he had been along on the raid, Charlie wouldn't have been..."Hey, Sinclair. What've you guys got on the radar?"

Relief resonated in David's voice and translated all the way to South America. "Granger, dude, what's going on there? We've got reports that Macedo is neutralized. Is Charlie recovered?"

Colby sighed. "Yeah. Yeah man...but he's down. Shit, Dave. I hate hospitals, you know?"

"I know," his friend responded sympathetically. "I'm sure Charlie will thank you for it, when he can."

Colby snorted. "Thank me? Hell, the Whiz Kid owes me a full rack for this." His voice increased in volume and determination. "And don't think I'm not gonna collect, either!"

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Don found a quiet corner in the middle of the first waiting room - it was, after all, almost 4 a.m. - and entered the numbers into the cell before he could talk himself out of it. 'Hell,' he thought, waiting for her to answer. 'I don't even have her on speed dial any..."Liz? I'm sorry. I know we're..." He ran a frustrated hand over his head. "Dammit, I don't know what we are. I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call."

She heard the raw pain in his voice and responded. "Don." Her admonishment was gentle. "You know I'll always be..." Was she going to say 'your friend'? God forbid that she use the most devastating words in the English language. "Tell me what you need," she said instead. "Tell me what's happening. Tell me about Charlie."

The last four words ripped a sob out of his throat that left all of him as raw as an open wound. "He's unconscious," he began. "He won't wake up. My Dad is with him in ICU right now...Amita..." He stopped, suddenly chagrined and guilty. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't fair to you. I practically kicked you out of my life, and now…."

"Sshhh," she soothed, whispering into the cell. "Don, just because we stopped sleeping together doesn't mean I don't care about you anymore." She swallowed, then made a confession of her own. "Or your family. Love isn't that easy to turn off sometimes, you know?"

Don leaned his head into the wall, squeezed shut his eyes and wondered, not for the first time, just how big a mistake he had made.

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Larry apologized into the cell. "Forgive me, my dear. I'm afraid I paid no attention to the time change. Have I wrenched you away from something important?"

He could hear the smile in Megan's voice even as she chided him. "Don't be ridiculous, Larry. I've been waiting for you to call. Are you all right? How's...Don?"

The corners of his mouth turned down in a sad smile as he reached up to scratch his new beard. "Understandably upset - as are we all - but he was not injured in the assault on Macedo's compound." He glanced around furtively, his eyes taking on a confused and vaguely glazed appearance. "I'm...not quite sure where he is, at the moment. He and Alan are taking turns sitting with Charles...Megan, dearest, I'm not entirely sure where I am. I don't seem to recognize this room. Perhaps I shouldn't be using a cell phone at this location."

She sighed, and shook her head as if he could see her. "For a smart man, Larry, you're an idiot sometimes. I don't care where you are. I care about how you are. So wander around until you find a chair, sit down, and tell me."

Larry looked around obediently and headed for the nearest chair. "Of course, my dear," he murmured. "I'm sure that's why I called."

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In his first episode of claustrophobia in his almost 70 years, Alan had bolted from the ICU before Don came to relieve him. He set off alarms when he barreled through the closest emergency exit, but that didn't even slow him down. By the time he stopped, at the edge of the jungle, he was breathing hard and thanking God for having someone think of a way to light up the buttons on a cell phone. Number entered, he raised the tiny miracle to his ear and huffed out a greeting. "Millie? Millie. Millie." He couldn't seem to think of anything else to say – so he kept saying it louder.

"Well, it's about time you called," she responded, her matter-of-fact tone slowing his heart rate and regulating his breathing. "I know you're busy down there in Colombia, but is it too much to ask that you keep me abreast of things? Without Charlie to run interference, I can't get any information out of those people at the F.B.I."

Alan's voice came out as a whine, even to his own ears. "He's hurt, Millie. There's too much pressure around his brain, and the doctors aren't sure..."

She interrupted, scolding him as if he was a child. "Be reasonable, man. Charlie's brain has always been too big for the rest of him." Her voice gentled, and took on a new seriousness and sincerity. "Except maybe his heart. Only his father has a bigger heart than he does."

Alan absently rubbed his hand across his forehead and sighed. "Don't you know by now?" he asked. "My sons are my heart."

End, Chapter 25


	26. The 9th Commandment

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 26: The 9****th**** Commandment**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Two and a half days later, Don wondered if he had been projecting a little too much stoicism when Alan tried to send him back to the U.S.

Charlie had been moved to the general population of the clinic, so they both could be with him at the same time. Yet another doctor was examining him now, in preparation for a procedure the next day, and they had been asked to leave the room. Reluctantly, they were walking toward the front of the clinic, stretching their legs and discussing the flight Colby and Larry would take back to L.A. the next day.

"You should go with them," Alan said abruptly, and Don stopped stock-still in the corridor and observed his father with horror.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't even try to keep his voice down. "Charlie's not even conscious yet – and he's having surgery tomorrow! Of course I'm not leaving!"

Alan raised a hand in supplication. "Donny, Donny. You've heard the same things I have. Your brother is out of immediate danger. His brain has stopped swelling, he's showing signs of 'lightening', and they're only doing this…this 'lam' thing because one of the best spinal surgeons in the world happens to be on temporary assignment here."

"'Laminotomy,'" supplied Don automatically. "And that's not the point." He half-turned away from his father, frustrated, and turned back again. "Well, it's part of the point. Sure, it's supposed to be a simple laser procedure– but when's the last time something was simple, for Charlie?" His voice degenerated into a whine. "Why d'ya think I'd leave both of you here?"

Alan smiled politely at a passing nurse and steered Don toward the side of the hallway. "Don, keep your voice down! And your temper, too! Of course I'm not saying I want you to leave! I just thought maybe you had to get back to work - you've missed a lot of time already."

Don crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his father, leaning back against the wall. "Let _me_ worry about that, Dad. Don't insult me by implying that my work is more important to me than my brother."

Alan arched an eyebrow and crossed his own arms across _his_ chest, centering his weight over his straddled legs. "Don't insult _me_ by putting words in my mouth, young man! Your mother and I raised you boys to be good friends, as well -- you're throwing Colby to the lions, without any back-up? After all he did for us?"

Don groaned in sudden understanding and tilted his head back, thunking into the wall. "Ah. I get it, now." He dropped his arms and pushed off against the wall, offering Alan a small smile. "You don't need to worry about that either, Dad. Merrick is going to look the other way on this one -- he should have listened to Colby in the first place, and he knows it. Granger talked to him yesterday -- this is going in the books as an official assignment. He won't even lose vacation time."

The Eppes men began wandering down the corridor again, and Don could hear Alan's sigh of relief. "Oh. That's good. I was concerned." He changed the subject without preamble, catching Don off-guard. "I know you were talking with Dr. Remini while I was having breakfast in the cafeteria."

They were passing a small grouping of chairs that passed for a waiting area, and Don indicated them with a toss of his head. "Let's sit," he suggested.

His father paled. "What's wrong? What is it? If something's happening with Charlie, I need to be part of the discussion, dammit!" He stopped moving and gaped at Don. "This is why you don't want to leave."

Don rolled his eyes and took his father's elbow, dragging him toward a chair. "Geez, Dad," he muttered. "Over-dramatic, much?" He shoved Alan into a chair and pulled one over so that it was closer. Sitting down himself, he lowered his voice. "I wanted to make sure there was...an exam."

Alan looked confused. "An exam? Of course there was an exam. Charlie's shot, unconscious, beaten..."

Don nodded almost imperceptibly. "Right," he almost-whispered. "Beaten." He waited for Alan to follow his line of thought, and could tell by the horrified comprehension on his face when he did. Don leaned a little closer. "Doc said he's okay."

Alan was back to confused. "But...your informant...and..."

Don nodded, and unconsciously began to grip his own hands, dangling between his knees, together. He lowered his voice even more, and Alan had to lean in a little to catch everything. "Remini said only Charlie can tell us exactly what happened, and how often. Physical abuse is pretty apparent -- the bruises, the cracked ribs, the pinched nerve in his neck... Combined with the way Charlie acted in the prison and the testimony of the Russian prisoner... well. Any...anyway, the doctor said that there is no physical evidence of...a completed act." Don stopped talking, and hoped to hell his father connected all the dots.

Alan sighed, pushed back in his chair and let his gaze wander the circumference of the room. Finally he sighed again, looked sadly at Don and spoke. "I guess that's something, anyway."

Don was a little taken aback. "I thought it was a little more than that," he mumbled.

Alan leaned forward again. "When your mother and I were in college," he shared, "one of her roommates was walking back to their apartment one evening after dark. She was attacked, and it was a vicious assault. This was back in the day when people got involved. Neighbors heard the screams, and intervened before...you know. Still, damage was done - and I don't just mean physically. That poor girl was never the same. She became a virtual recluse. She quit her job, and missed so many classes she had to drop out of school. She would sit in a dark corner of the apartment and cry for hours. Damage was done."

Don processed the story for a few moments, set his lips in a grim line and leaned back in his own chair. He crossed one foot over the other knee and began to pick at the hem on his jeans, studying his shoe intently. "We won't let that happen to Charlie," he finally declared.

Alan smiled at his eldest fondly, but a little sadly. "People loved _her_, too," he said gently.

Don looked away from his pant leg then and directly at Alan, his eyes hard, determined steel. "Not like us," he responded, inviting no argument. "Not like us."

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The pinched nerve was discovered during the MRI, and Dr. Remini's colleagues agreed that it could be causing the patient's odd movements. When the swelling of Charlie's brain stabilized and they were fairly certain a burr hole would not be required to relieve the pressure, Remini talked Dr. Sandobar into performing the laminotomy. "He'll need extensive physical therapy on that leg," Remini insisted. "You can hardly expect him to accomplish that when he can barely move his extremities."

Sandobar had argued briefly. "He may never regain consciousness. Closed head injuries are tricky; I don't have to tell you that. If he does, he can have this done as an outpatient procedure when he gets back home."

Remini had pulled his six-foot frame up to loom over the conference table, where seven assorted doctors discussed Charlie's potential treatments. He spoke slowly, methodically, with conviction. "I know most of you have seen the news stories. Trapped out here in the jungle, we either work, watch satellite TV, or read. This man has been through hell. This man's _family_ has been through hell. Whether he's conscious or not, the pinched nerve will continue to deteriorate his physical condition." He walked a few feet down the table to lay a hand on Dr. Sandobar's arm. "Scott. You practically pioneered this procedure. Doesn't Dr. Eppes deserve to be able to move, if he does wake up? Doesn't Dr. Eppes deserve the best we can offer?"

In the end, Scott Sandobar had sighed dramatically and stood himself, with a nod to Remini. "All right, Eric," he had agreed. "I'm fully booked tomorrow, but schedule him for the next morning. We'll fix what we can for this young man."

So Remini had explained the procedure to Alan and Don, noting that the laser would release the trapped nerve and the awkward, pained movements that Don had described would be a thing of the past. The fact that Dr. Sandobar had agreed to do the surgery had encouraged Alan – he felt it was the doctors' way of saying that Charlie would wake up – and sooner, rather than later. Don had been less optimistic, although he kept that view to himself. Now, the procedure done and two hours after his brother was brought back to his room, Don could only hope that it would matter. He could only sit next to Alan, and wait for Charlie to wake up.

Physical therapists had shown Alan how to exercise Charlie's injured leg -- as well as the rest of his limbs, explaining the importance of maintaining muscle tone. Every hour during the day, Alan would stand over the bed and mimic the therapists' actions. Every morning, after a tasteless breakfast he could never remember, he would track down one of the staff and ask how often the range-of-motion exercises had been completed the night before. If he felt it wasn't enough, Alan would increase his own daytime ministrations. Today, he was offering ROM every 45 minutes. Don would help, when he was there. This time, however, Alan worked alone; Don had gone to the cafeteria on a coffee run. Alan talked to Charlie as he completed the exercises. He explained what he was doing, and why he was doing it. He prattled on about the weather. He told Charlie about the book his club was reading. Then he carefully and lovingly arranged Charlie's legs on the hospital bed; neatly covered him with the thin white sheet; artfully arranged the thin arms at Charlie's sides; affectionately smoothed the curls on his brow; and then reclaimed the bedside chair to wait for his coffee.

He was completely and totally unprepared for his youngest son to suddenly inhale a shuddering gasp of air, and sit straight up in bed.

Alan looked up from his book at the noise and asked a stupid question. "Charlie? Are you all right, son?"

Charlie swiveled his head to look at Alan, his eyes wide and wild. His mouth worked for a moment before he managed to rasp out something that Alan was pretty sure was "Where?"

Alan jumped up and reached for the water he made sure was fresh every morning on the bedside table. "Here, son, try to drink something. You've been...asleep..."

To his surprise Charlie's hand shot out and knocked the plastic cup from his hand. "Wan 'Mita," his youngest ordered. "Get 'Mita."

Alan reached out to brush at the wayward curls with one hand while he fumbled for the call button with the other. "Hush, now, Charlie. Just relax, son. I'm calling the nurse."

Charlie pulled away from his hand, swaying dangerously. His unused throat refused to reflect the passion he felt as he attempted a roar that sounded more like a kitten's mewl. " 'MITA! 'MITA!"

Alan pulled Charlie to him, tears of heartbreak and relief mixing in his eyes. "Come here, son. Come here."

Charlie gasped again and Alan felt him slump, and lowered him gently back to the bed. He was terrified that Charlie was unconscious again, but when he looked at his face, luminous brown eyes were looking back at him. " 'Mita?" Charlie whispered.

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Don dropped the first cup of coffee when Bruce thundered past him like a linebacker, the gale-force wind he created startling Don and knocking him slightly off balance. He dropped the second cup when the large nurse barreled through his brother's hospital room door – and he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother's voice. He stood frozen in the hallway, dripping with coffee and only feet from the door, and marveled that a man who had been unconscious for most of a week could make that much noise.

"LIARS! LIARS! YOU'RE LYING!! AHHHHH-MEEEE-TAHHHH!"

By the second syllable of her name, Don had found his feet once more and rushed through the door before it had time to swing shut after Bruce almost ripped it off its hinges. He skidded to a stop again at the tableau before him. IV lines connected to nothing swung lazily over the bed. Charlie was standing on the mattress, painfully thin and exposed in his hospital gown. Alan was on the floor on his knees near the head of the bed, holding his jaw with one hand and using the other to pull himself upright. A female nurse with a syringe in one hand had a knee on the bed, and was trying to get close enough to Charlie to do something with her weapon of choice. Charlie was ducking and weaving like a welterweight, and Don didn't know if he was bobbing on purpose – or about to fall in a tangled heap. Seeing Bruce lunge for his brother, Don decided not to wait to find out, and rushed the bed. He bellowed to be heard over Charlie's yells, using the voice generally reserved for raids and active crime scenes. "CHARLIE! CHARLIE!"

Don saw his brother's chin lift, saw the recognition flood his eyes…and saw it immediately followed by fear. At the end of the bed by now, one hand extended, Don froze again like a Greek statue. Bruce had a paw on him now, but Charlie instinctively dropped to his knees, breaking the hold. Blood seeped from the bandages around his thigh, dripped down his leg and pooled on the tangled sheets. Instead of scrambling away from Bruce, Charlie surprised them all by twisting a bloody hand in Bruce's scrubs and crawling toward him. "It's him," he gasped breathlessly, letting frantic eyes flit to Don again. "He's lying, don't you see?" By this time Alan was up and trying to pry Charlie away from Bruce, who had spied the other nurse sneaking into Charlie's blind spot, and was not about to let go. Charlie twisted his hand tighter in the fabric and began to wail in earnest. "HE HATES ME! HE HATES ME! Get him out of here! AHHH-MEEE-AAAGHH!"

His own heart thumping madly in his ears, Don saw Charlie arch his back and then slump, narrowly avoiding breaking a needle off in his arm. Bruce's lightning-fast reflexes prevented that sloppy ending when he pulled the syringe the other nurse had planted out of Charlie's bicep – but by loosening his hold on Charlie, he had relinquished control to Alan, who wrestled his suddenly limp son away. He crawled up onto the bed with him, cradling him in his lap and bending protectively over his head, and the room began to gray at the edges in Don's vision. Charlie was afraid of him. Charlie believed Don hated him enough to concoct a horrible lie about Amita. Charlie wanted him gone.

Don didn't know how long he wavered there, at the end of Charlie's hospital bed, before he felt Bruce's vise-like grip on his arm and noises began to filter in again, one-by-one. First he registered his own breathing, ragged and labored as if he had just run a mile. Then a deep, masculine voice, insisting that he sit down and put his head between his knees. Over that, he heard a decidedly higher timbre ranting on about 'shock' and 'doctors'. Finally – and this was the sound he clung to – he heard his father's low voice, like a cantor's monotone. Alan was singing almost directly into Charlie's ear; a traditional Jewish lullaby Don couldn't remember hearing since Charlie had learned to walk. Don gulped in air, as a half-sob ripped from his throat at the same time, and let his eyes track the sound. Alan was still cradling a now-still Charlie on the bed, slowly rocking them both back and forth. Strong arms were wrapped around Charlie's chest, and Alan was still bent over him protectively, the top of his head touching the top of Charlie's, and his eyes were closed.

_"Shlof mind kind tryst mine sheyner,"_ he crooned. _"Shlof-zhe zunenyu. Shlof mine lebyn kadish eyner. Shlof-zhe lyu-lyu-lyu…"_

End, Chapter 26

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_Translation:_

"_Sleep my child, my beautiful one._

_Sleep, little son._

_Sleep, my life and only Kaddish._

_Sleep…lyu-lyu-lyu…"_


	27. Scars

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 27: Scars **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Alan had to admit, after the initial shock of Charlie's life-threatening situation had subsided, he questioned whether a remote clinic in the middle of the jungle was the best place for his son. Certainly, it was well equipped, spotless, every piece of state of the art equipment was new and gleaming, and the doctors, who came there from all over the world, seemed first rate. His doubts were alleviated a bit more in the days that followed, as he saw a steady parade of Hollywood stars and heads of state check in for anything from nose jobs to open heart surgery. Still, when the day arrived to transfer Charlie to L.A., he was mightily relieved.

Most of Alan's discomfort wasn't with the clinic, but with Charlie himself. After his son's first crazed awakening, he slept again for hours, and when he awoke the next time, he was calmer, and seemed more rational. He was in and out, and still not thinking quite straight under the influence of the painkillers, but as they reduced the dosages, Alan could tell that his son's faculties were returning. With the increased cognition, however, came memory, and as memory returned, Charlie retreated. Most of the time, he lay unmoving, silent, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Occasionally Alan would catch his eye, and the expression in those dark orbs was heartbreaking – they were filled with utter defeat and despair. Sometimes, Alan would return from his few trips to the restroom, or the cafeteria, to find the most heart-wrenching vision of all – Charlie sitting there, immobile, with tears streaming down his thin, pale face. Perhaps worst of all were frightening sessions when Charlie didn't respond at all, blanking out, almost as if he were unconscious, with his eyes open.

Alan tried his best – alternately consoling, cajoling, lecturing, joking – anything to get a reaction. He felt alone himself – after Charlie's response to Don when he woke, his older son, obviously shaken, had taken Alan's advice, and had caught the flight back with Colby and Larry. Alan had kicked himself for suggesting it to begin with – he realized after Charlie's reaction that the best thing would have been for Don to stay there, and for both of them to try to reach Charlie somehow. Don, though, was convinced that Charlie was better off without him there, and so Alan had tried to deal with his younger son alone.

Bruce, the nurse, did his best, clucking and fussing over Charlie, calling him "poor baby," and generally coddling him. Alan noticed, however, that Charlie flinched whenever Bruce touched him – in fact, whenever any of the male staff touched him. He tried to talk to Charlie about it; to gently draw him out, but Charlie got so agitated whenever he came even close to the subject, that Alan dropped it like a hot potato. He had never felt so helpless and frustrated in his life, and as the plane touched down in L.A., he felt a surge of relief. Don would be here, and Larry, and Don's team, and other people that Charlie knew and trusted. They would get him psychiatric help – help that Charlie had refused at the clinic. Alan wouldn't be alone in his efforts anymore. Surely, with the support of all of them, they could somehow pull Charlie through this.

The trip back was made easier by a direct flight on a private jet, courtesy of Bob Tompkins. Alan had garnered from brief phone conversations with Don that Charlie had managed to pull off something big, something that had undermined the entire Macedo cartel. He didn't know the details; it was classified, Don had told him, but it would be out in the press soon. This was a coup that the Colombian government and the DEA couldn't wait to crow about – they were still trying to find out where Charlie had funneled all of Macedo's money, and tie up the loose ends, before the story hit the press. The jet was the least they could do, Tompkins had insisted.

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Don watched as the jet touched down on the runway, and a ramp was lowered. He was just outside the door, next to a waiting ambulance that was to transfer his brother to UCLA Medical Center. Charlie's doctor, apparently mistrustful of the jungle clinic, had ordered a minimum two-day stay, complete with a full battery of tests, before he would even think of releasing him. He saw his father come down the ramp, followed by an orderly pushing a wheelchair containing a hunched figure.

He squinted for a better look; Charlie had a blanket over his lap and another around his shoulders, and what looked like a dark stocking cap on his head. Don watched them approach with trepidation; his mouth dry. He had no idea how Charlie would react to his presence – but he prayed it would be better than what had happened at the clinic. He still was berating himself for his hasty retreat from Colombia– he had been so rattled by Charlie's reaction, he had allowed himself to act on emotion, instead of reason. Once on the plane, and every day afterward, he had agonized over that decision, wishing he had stayed, no matter how painful it was.

Now, however, as they approached him, he could feel the fear return – the fear that Charlie would reject him again, that he'd lost his brother for good; that he'd never get him back. His father had assured him that Charlie's reaction at the clinic was probably just due to the painkillers, and Don hoped fervently he was right. He had the horrible suspicion that Charlie still hadn't forgiven him his collusion with Penfield, however, and somehow blamed him for all of what had happened after. Even if Charlie didn't; Don blamed himself; he had corresponded with the man for weeks and worked next to him for days on the course. How could he not have sensed somehow that Penfield was planning something, had something up his sleeve?

They were almost up to him now, but Charlie had his eyes on his lap, and hadn't seen him yet. Don's heart lodged in his throat as his father caught sight of him and strode forward, with a heartfelt, "Donny!" and a hearty hug. Alan stepped back, and Don's heart thumped as he realized that Charlie's eyes were on him. He waited, and - nothing. Charlie's eyes merely flickered away; his face expressionless; and the orderly pushed him up the ramp into the waiting ambulance. Don stood, speechless, his heart dropping. He wasn't sure which was worse; Charlie's rant at the clinic, or the complete denial that he was even there.

Alan's face was filled with anxiety, but he put a soothing hand on Don's arm. "Don't worry, Donny – he still is having some bad moments; migraines, memory lapses, periods where he just seems to blank out. The doctors at the clinic say that that's normal after a head injury like his. You'll meet us at the hospital?"

"Yeah," Don managed, and he watched as his father climbed into the ambulance. Don't worry, he had said – memory lapses, blanking out? How could he not worry – although he knew that wasn't what his father had meant; he meant for him not to worry about Charlie's lack of reaction toward him. The problem was that there hadn't been a lack of reaction. Even though Charlie's face was expressionless, the eyes, just before they turned away, spoke volumes. They were filled with hurt, and the flash of anger. Charlie knew very well what and who he was looking at, and didn't care to speak to him. Don't worry? Don wasn't. He was beyond worried – he was terrified. Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, he turned and walked alongside the porter, who was wheeling his father's and Charlie's bags into the terminal.

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"He's here!" exclaimed Larry, and Megan rose from her seat, following Larry's gaze toward the hospital entrance. They had gathered in the waiting area – David, Colby, Larry, Millie and herself, an impromptu welcome-back committee. The rest of them strode forward with smiles on their faces, but Megan caught her breath at the sight of him. Even bundled with blankets, Charlie looked thin, fragile, huddled in them like a little old man. His dark eyes were huge in his thin face, framed by bits of his curls peeking out from under the navy blue stocking cap, which only accentuated how pale he was.

He looked back at them solemnly, as Colby, Millie and David uttered hearty greetings, and Larry patted him awkwardly on the arm. Behind him, the automatic entry doors opened again, and Megan saw Don come in, and stand behind the orderly, uncertainly. It was certainly a bittersweet homecoming, she thought, as she looked sadly at Charlie. Amita was missed by all of them; and to see Charlie, like this…

"You didn't have to come," said Charlie quietly. David and Colby had been in the midst of some cheerful but forced banter, and they stopped, hesitating, at his words. Charlie closed his eyes. "I'm really tired," he said softly, and nurse beside him, a pert blonde with a Texas twang, took that as her cue.

"He's had a very long trip," she said, "and he needs some rest. Why don't y'all let us take care of him, and come back for a visit later?" She nodded at the orderly, who began to push the wheelchair toward a bank of elevators. Just like that, the welcome party was over.

Megan looked at the sad, pale face; her eyes traveled to Alan's, creased with worry, and finally to Don, who stood helplessly watching them go, his eyes tortured. Wordlessly, they stood as a group, hearts heavy. There was a loud cheerful "ding" from the elevator, incongruous in the silence; Alan stepped onto the elevator behind Charlie and the orderly, and they were gone.

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The tests began the next morning, and were exhausting, even for Alan. Hours of prep, drinking contrast for the CAT scan. X-rays, MRI's, blood work, urine samples; a complete workup. That was followed by a session with an orthopedic doctor and a physical therapist, who evaluated Charlie's leg, and pronounced him releasable on crutches. They started psychiatric testing toward the end of the day, after all of the physical testing was done. Charlie looked wiped out, and Alan implored the psychiatrist handling the tests to wait until the next day, but the man insisted at least starting them.

"We need to assess his mental status," he said, and Alan shook his head impatiently.

"I understand that," he said. "But it can't wait until tomorrow?"

The doctor eyed him, looked behind him to make sure Charlie's door was closed, and then spoke bluntly. "We need to know if he should be on a suicide watch," and Alan had paled and shut his mouth, and then indicated with a weak wave of his hand for the doctor to go ahead.

Two hours later, well past dinnertime, the doctor had emerged from Charlie's room, looking worried and a little frustrated. As Alan rose from a chair in the hallway, he shook his head. "He wouldn't respond to all of the questions – he said he didn't remember in some cases, but I wasn't always sure if he was being truthful. Did the clinic doctors say anything about memory lapses?"

Alan nodded. "Yes. They said he was experiencing them, that those were normal with head injuries like this."

The doctor nodded, and his face cleared a little. "The results are inconclusive. He is obviously deeply depressed, and I suspect is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but the answers didn't indicate that he needs to be on a suicide watch. He does certainly need therapy, even after release. Will someone be staying with him when he goes home?"

"Yes, I will – I live with him," replied Alan, and the doctor nodded again, and wrote on his chart.

"I suppose we will be able to release him from a psychiatric standpoint based on that. He still has neurological and cognitive tests scheduled for tomorrow – you understand that the neurologists need to weigh in the decision to release him too."

"Yes," said Alan wearily, "I suppose I do."

A hospital worker approached, wheeling a cart, and opened the door to Charlie's room, bearing his dinner under a covered tray. Alan caught a glimpse of Charlie, out cold, his head still covered in the stocking cap, resting on the pillow.

The doctor watched as the door eased shut. "Can I ask, what's with the hat?"

Alan smiled just a bit. "He usually wears his hair somewhat long and curly – I think he's just a little proud of it. He's got a spot in the back now that they shaved, before they stitched his scalp. The hair is starting to grow in a little, but it's a lot shorter than the rest of it, and you can still see the scar. He's wearing the hat to cover it up."

The doctor nodded and pursed his lips. "That's actually a good sign – the fact that he cares enough about how he looks to do that." Alan got the impression that the therapist's remaining doubts had just been put to rest. He gave Alan a brief pat on the shoulder. "I'll make sure he's lined up with a regular therapist before you leave tomorrow."

He walked away, and Alan watched him retreat down the hall; then pushed wearily into Charlie's room.

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Don gently opened the door, and peeked in. It was only seven in the evening, but he could see that Charlie was already asleep. Alan sat nodding himself, by Charlie's bedside. Don slipped inside, and Alan's head jerked up as he caught the movement.

"Hey, Dad," whispered Don, and Alan rose and gave him a hug. Don held him for just a minute, reflecting that his father needed the embrace as much as he did. They separated, and he looked at Charlie. "How's he doing?"

Alan followed his eyes to the still form in the bed, and whispered back. "Okay. Exhausted from the testing. We've got some more tomorrow, but they think that if it goes well, he might get released in the afternoon, maybe around two or so."

Don nodded. "I'll kick off early, and come down and help." He looked at Alan. "My team was wondering if there was a good time to stop by – they really didn't get a chance to see him yesterday."

Alan frowned a little. "Actually, maybe it would be better if they waited until he was home – I think he's out for the night, and tomorrow will be pretty busy."

Don nodded. His eyes caught the food tray next to Charlie's bed, and he looked at Alan. "Why don't you run down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I'll sit with him."

He caught the uncertain look on his father's face, and his gut twisted a little. Even his dad was worried about how Charlie would take his presence. But then Alan sighed. "Okay. Maybe I will."

Don watched him walk out of the room; his father looked exhausted himself, and he mentally kicked himself again for leaving them in Colombia. Some big brave agent he was – running because he got his feelings hurt. Inside, though he knew it was more than that, so much more. He _was_ afraid, he'd never been more afraid of anything in his life. He was afraid that Charlie would never be the same; and at the same time afraid that he would be, but that there was no longer any room in his heart for Don. That fear had kept him in the office all day, until he finally got up the courage to visit this evening. And now, thank God, Charlie was asleep. Don felt a deep sense relief that he wouldn't have to face Charlie after all, even as he was disgusted with himself for his cowardice.

This was actually perfect, he decided; he'd get to spend at least a little time with him. He studied the face on the pillow. Charlie was still wearing the navy blue stocking cap; it made him look like a kid. Bits of curls peeked out around it, framing the pale face, which appeared so trouble-free and innocent in repose. It looked like the Charlie he knew before all of this happened, as if any minute now, he'd wake up and give him that loopy, million-watt grin.

Charlie stirred and frowned, then moaned suddenly, and Don stiffened, watching him with bated breath. His heart caught as Charlie twisted, one hand up, as if to fend something, someone, off.

"No," moaned Charlie, "Please – don't…" The words trailed off into another moan, and Charlie laid still again, his face contorted in fear and pain even as he slept.

Don reached out, hesitantly, and laid a hand on his brother's arm. "It's okay, Charlie," he whispered sadly, "it'll be okay." Charlie's face relaxed a little, then he was still again, and Don sat there motionless, tied tenuously to his brother by the touch of a hand.

End, Chapter 27


	28. Memories or the Lack Thereof

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 28: Memories…or the Lack Thereof **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Charlie stared at the bowl of glue that was masquerading as oatmeal, and sighed. One more day of tests; it was looking likely that he would go home toward the end of the day, his father had told him. The words meant little. His head was still a stew of horror, of fragmented memories, and he knew it would follow him no matter where he was. He was almost afraid to go home; as if somehow he would drag all that garbage with him into a place that he used to love.

He sat there staring, blankly, as hands came and took the offensive gray goop away, and doctors came in to test his reflexes, his pupil reaction, limb strength and response to pain. As if he needed any more pain. More bodies appeared, and conducted hearing and vision tests. Then finally, late in the morning, yet another set of hands appeared, wheeling in a computer, and pulled it up next his bed, swinging a keyboard in front of him. That finally got his attention, and he looked up at slightly plump middle-aged brunette that had sat down next to him. Behind her, his father looked on anxiously. He hadn't even been aware that Alan was in the room. The woman pulled up a screen; then held out her hand. "Hello, Doctor Eppes."

Her voice and smile were pleasant, and her eyes sharp with intelligence. Charlie took her hand with a murmured hello.

"I'm Dr. Susan Wilkes, and I'm here to do some cognitive testing." She smiled. "It's quite an honor for me actually; I don't usually test someone of your caliber. I did a double major in math and psychology in both undergraduate and graduate school, so I'll try to keep up with you, but I won't give you any guarantees. I understand you've been having some memory lapses; what we'll try to do here today is see whether or not they are situational, in other words, related to recent traumatic experiences you went through, or not. Situational memory lapses usually resolve themselves in time, with psychotherapy. Memory lapses that immediately follow head injury are also not uncommon – you may not remember what occurred immediately before the injury. What we are trying to rule out here are any other memory malfunctions – anything that might be organic in nature; such as possible permanent damage from your head injury."

With that cheerful thought, she began the testing, pulling up the material on the computer screen. They progressed through much of it rapidly – basic reading and math, some history. As they moved along, it got progressively more difficult. Two hours flew by, and by the time lunchtime rolled around, Charlie estimated they were at college level work, and he had the beginnings of a migraine. He was finding it a little difficult to concentrate at times – not because the material was too much, but because his mind would wander off into dark corners as snatches of his ordeal resurfaced in his head, or because a sudden vision of Amita would consume his thoughts. Or worst of all, a thought of Don would creep in, unbidden. He knew now for certain where he stood with his brother; as soon as Don knew Charlie was out of trouble he'd left Colombia – he'd done his family duty, probably couldn't wait to get away. Don hadn't even bothered to visit him right here in L.A. – no sense wasting time on someone who was of no use to him. He could feel the dull ache behind his right eye growing, and he rubbed it; then became aware that for at least the sixth time, Susan was asking him a question, and he was ignoring her.

He looked at the equation on the screen, wearily, and answered what he thought she'd asked. "Bernoulli equation, fluid dynamics."

"I asked you if you were getting tired, doctor," she said. She was smiling, but there was a bit of concern in her eyes.

"I think I'm getting another migraine," Charlie admitted.

She nodded, and turned off the monitor. "It's nearly lunchtime, and we've covered nearly everything we need to. We'll break for lunch, let you take some medicine for the migraine, and then if you're up to it we'll continue." She pushed back the monitor, and with a smile at Alan, left the room.

Alan followed her out into the hall. "Wait, Miss, uh, Doctor Wilkes." She turned to face him. "How is he doing?"

She hesitated. "Very well, really; excellent in terms of answering the questions, although even college level math and science have to be very basic for him. The only thing that concerns me is the fact that he keeps zoning out – it happened several times, did you notice it?"

Alan nodded. "What does that mean?"

She shook her head. "It's really too early to tell. He's gone through a lot; it may just be difficult for him to concentrate because of everything on his mind. Or it could be a function of his injury. For something that subtle, it will take time, and therapy, to determine whether or not it will be a permanent problem. It's significant enough that even if he were physically up to it, he wouldn't be allowed to drive, or even go out for a walk by himself. That won't be an issue for awhile however, due to his leg. Hopefully, by the time that heals, this loss of focus will have resolved itself."

Alan nodded, but felt a little twinge of concern at her use of "hopefully." He looked at her. "I did call one of Charlie's colleagues, as you requested, to bring some of Charlie's work for this afternoon. He should be here shortly."

She smiled. "Good. Based on this morning, I really don't foresee any problems."

They didn't start again until two o'clock. It took a dose of medicine and nearly two hours of darkened room to start to reverse the migraine, and when the lights came on; Charlie started and winced at the brightness. He pulled his mind back from the abyss of his nap, and the groping hands almost seemed to follow him into the room. They were always there now, when he slept; lurid dreams of the prison, of grasping, dirty hands, and powerful sweaty bodies haunted his sleep. He always awoke terrified, and feeling defiled.

He blinked groggily at Susan as she pushed the monitor toward the bed, and felt the familiar sense of the terror that came with sleep fading, and the onset of despair that came with awakening. She looked at him closely. "Are you ready for this, doctor?"

Charlie looked past her at Alan, who was watching him hopefully, and saw that Larry was in the room now too, undoubtedly to help Alan get him home when they released him. He shouldn't disappoint them, he thought. Get this over with and get out of here. Even if he didn't care if he went home or not, his father was probably dying to go. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Okay," she said, with her professional smile, and turned on the screen, swinging the keyboard within reach. "This shouldn't take very long. Your friend, Doctor Fleinhardt, was kind enough to bring some material from your office for us to use, just to give us the level of work that you're usually accustomed to. I didn't really have anything higher level in my test programming than what you saw this morning."

She pulled up a scanned copy of a paper, filled with his own familiar handwriting. "Can you tell me what this is?"

He recognized it immediately, it was a set of calculations he had done for a case for Don; one of the first ones they had worked together. The memory rose up in him almost painfully, as he remembered how excited he was to be a part of an actual FBI case, of his brother's life. What a naïve idiot he'd been. He could still remember his brother's smile; his hand clapping him on the back, how proud he'd been – he'd grinned back like a fool, thinking that spark in Don's eyes was pride and affection. He knew now that it was nothing more than the satisfaction Don must have felt for upping his solve rate. Charlie had helped make sure that for three years the L.A. office had one of the best solve rates in the country. Not any more, he thought dully. He lied on purpose. "I don't remember."

Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips, considering him for a moment. He averted his own; could she tell he was lying? "How about this one?" She clicked the mouse, and yet another scanned document, from another case – the one where he'd helped Don and Edgerton track a fugitive in the wild country of upstate California. One of the boys, part of the team. Not. He could hear Larry making noises like a steam engine. "St, st, st… Steiner tree," Larry hissed, finally, in a stage whisper. Dr. Wilkes rounded on him with a glare. "I must ask that you be silent."

"It doesn't matter, I didn't remember," said Charlie listlessly. He avoided her eyes again, trying to hide the lie, and caught Larry and his father exchanging troubled glances. He didn't care; he never wanted anything to do with Don and his cases, ever again.

She sighed, and looked at him with a frown. "Okay, we'll try something a little different." She clicked through several more case-related calculations, and came to something a bit more involved. She flicked through several pages, resting long enough on each one for him to read it. "Surely you recognize this."

Charlie nodded. "It's the Eppes Convergence." He could hear his father breathe a sigh of relief.

"Good," she said, and came to rest on a page part way into the study. "What is the next set of calculations?"

Charlie almost rolled his eyes at her. He could do this in his sleep. He focused on the page, and frowned a little. He couldn't quite tell where in the train of logic that this section was. "Can you flip back a couple of pages?" She obliged, flicking through them slowly, and he read through each one carefully, his heart thumping a little harder as she went through them. She reached the page again, and his mind spun frantically, his mouth dry. This was crazy – he had to know this – this was the piece of work that had defined his life. He stared, his hands twisting together, and he was aware of all of them watching, so silent, that he thought they must be holding their collective breaths.

"Doctor?"

He looked directly at them this time, his eyes frightened. "I don't remember," he whispered. It was hard to breathe suddenly, and he began to gasp for air.

Alan was just beginning to rise from his seat, when the door opened behind him, and he heard Don's voice. "Dad? How's it going? Are you guys about done?"

"Get out of here!"

Alan swung back around in shock, to see Charlie's face contorted with rage, his eyes focused on Don.

"I told you to stay the hell away from me! Get out! I don't want to see you again!" Charlie exploded in fury, pushing the keyboard so hard that he almost upset the computer, and Dr. Wilkes jumped up to grab it. They stared at him in shock.

Charlie's breath was ragged now, and wheezing, and Dr. Wilkes pressed the call button. She looked at Don, who was standing there, staring helplessly. "You'd better go," she said, and he backed away, stunned, his eyes full of pain, letting the door close behind him. Larry looked at Charlie, aghast; then followed Don out, and Dr. Wilkes instructed Charlie to lean forward and take some deep breaths.

Her eyes found Alan's, as her hands rested on Charlie's heaving shoulders. "I called for the nurse; I'll have her call his doctor. I'm going to recommend a sedative, but his doctor will need to order it. Maybe it's best that he stay for at least another night."

Alan stared at her; then looked down at the young man in the bed – he seemed so far from the son that had left Pasadena, only weeks ago. His eyes filling with tears, Alan sank next to him, and put his arms around the frail figure. Charlie's breathing was slowing now, but he was starting to shake, and Alan felt the woolly fabric of the stocking cap against his cheek. He held Charlie as the sobs started, tears of his own dampening the stocking hat, and wondered if he would ever get that son back.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Jon Elliott Westminster – formerly known as Marshall Penfield – sat in a crowded internet café near Times Square. He sipped a mocha latte and waited for the laptop on the small table to boot.

Jon-Marshall was a happy man. As of yet, he was not bored. He had never been as driven by the work itself as…others…and he found that having nothing to do all day agreed with him. He enjoyed the excitement of the city. There was always something to occupy his time here.

A side effect of that, of course, was that very few of those things were free. While he still had several thousand of his own dollars left, Jon-Marshall had decided it was as good a time as any to help himself to a little more. After all, he reasoned, Macedo's cartel owed it to him. It certainly wasn't his fault that Bogotá had imploded – he had delivered the goods, as he had promised. He had even discovered Charlie's subterfuge, so he was really due a bonus.

He navigated his way to the offshore bank where both he and Macedo had accounts, and quickly tapped into his own. He congratulated himself, as he began the transfer instructions, for having the wherewithal – not to mention the balls – to dig around Macedo's database until he found an account last year. In fact, he was convinced that's why he had been unable to break Charlie's codes in the timeframe allotted by Hector Macedo – whenever he was alone in the computer room, which was fairly often since he was there voluntarily – Marshall Penfield had been breaking a different set of codes.

He wondered idly how much he should take. The cartel had so much money to keep track of; no one would notice this one piddling little account balance fluctuating. Probably. And even if they did, what could anyone do about it now? If Macedo found another Eppes-caliber genius he could eventually track the activity to this computer…and so the hell what? Was he going to kill everyone who had visited an internet café in Times Square in the last year?

A message flashed on the small screen and Jon-Marshall leaned forward a little, frowning. He didn't have Eppes' photographic memory for numbers, but he was sure he had this sequence correct. Yet the bank insisted there was no such account. He yanked a scrap of paper out of his jacket pocket and checked, just to be sure. The numbers matched, so he re-read the message. Maybe Macedo or someone else in the cartel had changed the passwords, in the aftermath of the Columbian disaster.

But no, the message was very specific.

The account number itself did not exist. Did he wish to conduct another transaction?

Hell, yes.

Marshall Penfield wished to get the hell out of this suddenly very public place, and figure out what he was supposed to do now. His own account had less than $10,000.00 remaining – hardly enough to support the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed. He quickly logged off the server, shut down the laptop, drained his coffee, and headed for the door.

Five feet away, he stopped dead in his tracks, distracted by a photo of Dr. Charles Eppes smiling up at him from a discarded newspaper on an empty table. He approached it as if it were a snake, checking nervously over his shoulder; then leaning over the table to peer at the headline: _Macedo Dead -_ _Cartel Crumbles_, he read. _Top_ _Cartel Officials_ _Cooperating with International Authorities_. Suddenly heedless of the activity around him, Jon-Marshall crashed into the chair and grabbed the newspaper.

_Officials of the United Nations International Drug Control Program (UNDCP) are crediting Dr. Charles Eppes, an American mathematician, with single-handedly crippling the Macedo Cartel. Dr. Eppes was first responsible for designing a series of codes last year that made U.S. money-laundering more difficult for the cartel. Now, in a stunning victory for Colombian and U.S. law enforcement, Eppes has managed to tap into all cartel-held offshore bank accounts holding illegal drug money, and siphon them dry…._

Hands shaking, laying the paper back down, Jon-Marshall caught a sidebar to the story – something about large, anonymous donations to Colombian orphanages and drug rehabilitation centers – but he didn't bother to read it, didn't even finish the main story.

Jon Elliott Westminster was gone.

In his place sat 100 percent Marshall Penfield, seething with hatred for the man who had ruined his entire life – _AGAIN_. There was no cartel anymore. There was no cartel _money_, anymore. And if Marshall had his way, there would be no Dr. Charles Edward Eppes anymore. Not for much longer, anyway.

End, Chapter 28


	29. Standing Next to You, Miles Away

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 29: Standing Next to You, Miles Away **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Charlie was miserable, and more confused than everyone put together. He hadn't been concerned at first in the hospital, because he knew he was lying to Dr. Wilkes. When he had blanked out in the middle of the Eppes Convergence, though, he had freaked. Was he going to lose everything, then? His brother, his girlfriend, the right to control his own body, and now his genius?

Even after they finally sent him home, every day brought new and heartbreaking discoveries. The first night he had insisted on hopping up the stairs so that he could sleep in his own room. In his mind's eye, he had been picturing it for days. The soft jersey sheets on the bed. The matching, rich maroon down comforter. His feather pillow. The view of the koi pond in the back yard from his window. In his mind, there was a comfort in his old bedroom that could no longer be found anywhere else. His lover was gone. His brother had never loved him. His father was in a constant state of worry that was more draining than comforting. Charlie could not wait to fall into his bed – he wasn't necessarily planning on ever leaving it, again. So he had ignored the pain the jarring hops up the stairs had started in his head and his thigh.

At the landing, he stopped so abruptly that he felt his lurking father bump into him lightly. "Charlie? Do you need to rest, son?"

Charlie had gaped a few times as if one of the koi himself. He looked to one side of the hallway; then the other. Finally a shudder shook his entire body and he turned frightened eyes to his Alan. "Which…which one is mine?" he had been forced to whisper. Alan's own eyes had flashed dark with a pain he could not disguise before he smiled and indicated the direction in which Charlie should move. When Charlie finally located his bed, he spent the next two days in it, felled by a migraine that would not be tamed by any of the medications the hospital had sent home. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and his hands tightly gripped the sides of the bed – which seemed more like a listing ship. Now and then he would wake, taking turns sipping water and rolling to the side to heave into the trash can Alan left by the side of the bed. When sleep was denied him, he could hear the soft murmur of voices below in the kitchen; drifting up through the air vent. He recognized his father, Larry…even Don. When that one registered in his foggy mind, he made himself sick again worrying about how to avoid him, in the future. Charlie had been serious at his student's funeral – he would never deny his father access to his oldest son. He had to let Don come by the house. But now, effectively trapped in it himself, there was a new dilemma. Charlie knew that if he had to see Don on a regular basis, be reminded over and over that Don didn't love him…it would eventually completely break him.

Groaning into his pillow and wondering briefly when he had rolled onto his stomach, Charlie had finally decided he didn't really care.

He was broken already.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Colby was silent as long as he could be.

He sat in the Eppes dining room sharing a beer with Alan and his gray eyes narrowed over the rim while his mind took notes. Every time Don approached a room that Charlie was in, the younger man would painfully use his cane to pull himself up, and limp away. Sometimes he made an excuse – like a drink of water – but usually he just disappeared for awhile.

Colby knew that Alan noticed, too. For one thing, he was on his third beer since Colby came over to catch the game with them. Since the pre-game show still raged on the new, large screen plasma television mounted to the living room wall…that qualified as a lot of beer already.

Plus, the TV itself was weird. Alan took a great deal of pride in the Craftsman. He had always maintained it well, keeping his hand in even after Charlie had purchased the house – and the monstrous technology was not exactly a period piece. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the antiques in the otherwise tastefully decorated home. Colby had been surprised to see it when he had arrived, on two counts. One, it was so out of place. Two, Don hadn't mentioned it – by the look on Don's face, he wasn't even sure he knew about it.

Alan noted Colby staring at it now, and took another drag off his beer, draining another bottle. "I just joined the 21st century," he said suddenly, slightly defensively. "Charlie is stuck at home here a lot, and he can't even work for long periods at a time. The migraines." He sighed, watching Don edge into the living room silently and perch on one of the chairs at the edge, trying not to alert his brother, who seemed to be dozing on the couch. Alan lowered his voice a little. "Plus, Don hardly ever comes over anymore. I upgraded our cable, too, and added this NFL package…I thought maybe…"

Colby was a little shocked at that confession, and wasn't sure what to say. He was saved the trouble when Charlie jerked awake on the couch, seeming to sense Don at the edges, and automatically started casting about for his cane. Don jumped out of his chair as if he'd been shot, mumbled something about another beer, and retreated past them quickly, into the kitchen.

Colby looked at Alan, who was staring at the dining room table and playing with his own empty bottle. He stood and snatched it away. "I'll get us a couple of more," he stated, and followed Don through the swinging door. In the kitchen, he set the empties on a counter and observed the team leader silently for a while. Don was sitting morosely at the table, and there was no beer in front of him. Colby crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a couple of cold ones. Then he walked to the table, thunked one down in front of Don, and sat a few feet away in the nearest chair. He opened his own bottle and took a long drag. Then he sighed, and set it carefully on the table. "They released Elena Barrito, the flight attendant, from protective custody today."

Don's only response was a grunt and a pull on his beer, and Colby studied him for a moment. "You're giving up pretty easily," he finally stated.

Don jerked his head up, and his eyes flashed at Colby. "Just leave it alone, Granger. You've seen him. He doesn't want me here. He barely tolerates me since he got back."

Colby shook his head, slightly. "You're not thinking clearly. This is a problem that started before South America. Didn't he tell you at that student's funeral to stay away from him? This is all about Penfield."

Don pushed his chair back from the table and stood angrily. "You're wrong. You don't know what in the hell you're talking about! He was upset, then. He knows now that I care about him – hell, I went to South America after him!"

Colby looked up at him and lazily arched an eyebrow. "For him? Does he know that? He probably thinks you did it for your Dad."

Don flushed an angry red and bent slightly over the table. "You're welcome in this house to watch football. You're not qualified or invited to provide therapy." He straightened back up and snatched his beer off the table, heading for the door to the back yard.

Undaunted, Colby called after him. "Think about it. It's unfinished business. In his mind, you not only did not want him on the Quantico job – you picked the one person who would hurt him the most. The guy tried to debunk his work in front of his students and his peers. He tried to pick up Amita right in front of him. Now, Charlie even knows that Penfield hated him enough to give him to Macedo. And this is the guy you chose over him. Does he even know that Penfield really managed to escape, and you didn't just let him go?"

Don froze; his back to Colby. Seven seconds of silence passed before his shoulders drooped a little and he answered in a soft voice Colby could barely hear. "What am I supposed to do? I'm not sure he even remembers any of that – yesterday, Dad said he couldn't remember how to tie his shoes, once he got them on the right feet. I don't want to bring up something he's not ready for – and what could I say, anyway? I was an idiot. An idiot. But this isn't about me, right now."

Colby stood himself and started back for the dining room, purposefully forgetting Alan's fourth beer. "No shit," he intoned dryly, turning away from the kitchen table. "At least you got that one right."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don knew Colby was right, as far as it went, but he stood in the dark listening to the soft swish of the koi pond pump, and convinced himself that Granger didn't have the whole story. It was all good and well to imply that Don should clear the air with Charlie once and for all – but he wasn't going to put his brother through any more stress. Their father said that Charlie still fluctuated between insomnia and nightmares. He would mumble in his sleep and thrash around even when forced into slumber by a migraine medication. He had an astronomical, enormous, unimaginable amount on his plate. If focusing on an ill-perceived misunderstanding with Don helped keep his mind off Amita, or Macedo, or whatever the hell had happened to him in that prison – then Don was going to let him have that. Sure, it hurt to think of the new distance in their relationship…but he was doing this for Charlie.

By the end of the beer, he was convinced of that – even if no one else was.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It was Millie's idea for Charlie to return to campus. Even though it was two weeks after the start of the fall semester, and his classes were covered for the remainder of the term, she convinced Alan that the atmosphere would be good for him. "He can prepare his syllabi for next semester," she argued, "or fact-check for some of the other math and science professors who are about to publish. Hell, he can just sit in his office and smell the chalk. The students miss him. Conversations with them, and other faculty, will stimulate his mind, and help him heal. You know how important academia has always been to him."

Alan has hesitated before broaching the subject with Charlie. "His brilliance is what almost got him killed," he pointed out. "I'm not sure he feels the same way about it anymore."

Larry, who had so far been a silent witness to the conversation in the kitchen, finally spoke. "I certainly hope that's not the case, Alan. Millie is correct. As long as I have known Charles, the work has defined and energized him."

Millie couldn't resist a last shot. "It's about time we found out, at any rate."

In the end, Alan had waited until everyone left and Charlie was limping toward the staircase, headed for bed, to bring it up. "Son…do you…that is, you don't have to…but Millie and Larry thought maybe you'd like to return to campus? Just for a few hours a day?"

Charlie, exhausted from yesterday's migraine and today's physical therapy, hardly realized to what he was agreeing. "Sure," he said, continuing up the stairs. "Right. I'll do that, Dad."

And so he had, at first just because his father drove him there after a doctor's appointment the next day. Now, almost 10 days later Charlie stood at his office window, overlooking the campus, and admitted she was right. He had only experienced one migraine since he had been back, and the gaps in his memory were less apparent. Several days ago he had stood in front of the microwave for five minutes, trying to remember how to use it, before Alan found him and helped out – but nothing similar had happened since.

Unfortunately, Charlie knew, Millie had been too right. Once on campus, memories of Amita flooded back. Charlie remembered her as an undergrad, and then as a graduate student. He recalled several papers they had worked on together, as well as several FBI cases. Sometimes, sitting in the office where she had spent so much time with him, Charlie could still smell her perfume. Although his memory seemed to be improving, his insomnia was growing worse. Charlie was torn between two loves – his first, and his last. Being on campus _did_ remind him of how much the work meant to him – but he wasn't sure how long he could take this. Every time the door opened, he looked up expecting Amita. At least once a day a student, or a colleague, would mention her name, saying how sorry they were…

He sighed, letting his forehead fall against the window pane. This was so important to everyone. His father was ecstatic at Charlie's improvement. Millie smiled like a Cheshire cat and talked about the full class load she expected him to carry next semester. Larry dropped by so often, always shyly grinning, that Charlie found himself wondering if the physicist ever taught anymore. He thunked his head against the window twice, burrowing his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. They would all be so disappointed. They had done so much for him, and they would all be so disappointed.

Charlie turned back to his desk, looking for something with which to distract himself. There was little actual work to be done – but Larry wouldn't be able to give him a ride home until after his last class. Two more hours. He sat, and found himself staring at the small photo of Amita that was still on the corner of his crowded desk. His father had been shocked to learn that at first, Charlie had thought her death was his fault. When Charlie explained that Macedo had told him he had his man disconnect her equipment because of Charlie's attempt to put the tracer in his programming, Alan had hastened to explain what really happened; that the Ramanujans had ordered it per Amita's wishes, and they were all present when it was done. It provided a trivial amount of comfort; Charlie still knew that it was her association with him that put her in that position to begin with. She'd been drugged because she was with him. It was because of him that she was gone.

After a few moments, he reached out to touch the glass briefly; then pulled his hand away. The photograph reminded him of their last date, because it had been taken in the same place – in front of the L.A. Convention Center. On their last date, they had attended a symphonic concert, there – a pianist from Russia. Andre something. The photograph was taken almost a year earlier, when they had gone with some students to an important lecture on global warming. Charlie smiled slightly, remembering. Even though there were students with them, that afternoon had certainly been more successful than their first date. That had been a disaster….

Charlie looked away from the photo, disconcerted. It had been a disaster, right? He felt as if it had been bad – but he could not for the life of him remember. Any of it. He could not remember where they had gone, or why it had been a disaster. He could not remember why, if it had really not gone well, they decided to try again. He frowned at the closed door, his heart beginning to race, and tried to remember what she was wearing. What he was wearing. Where they had gone, what they had done…. He stood quickly; then sat again just as quickly. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. This wasn't right, it wasn't fair. Not only was Amita gone, but now he was losing his memories of her as well!

Charlie squeezed shut his eyes and ran a hand through the hair he had artfully arranged that morning to cover the short fuzz and the scar on the back of his head. A jolt of pain stabbed behind his right eye and he flashed on another, unbidden memory of Amita. Her hands were twisted in his hair, and she loomed over him, eyes closed in ecstasy and mouth open to gasp his name. "No!" he yelled, his own eyes popping open. He groaned, cursing his memory, now. He could live the rest of his life without remembering how much she had loved his hair….His ridiculous hair. He would give it all up, for another moment with Amita.

His eyes frantically searched the desktop until he found what he wanted – what he needed – what would save him. Grabbing the scissors with one hand, he sobbed as he lifted a lank curl with the other. "I hate this," he half-moaned, snipping wildly with the scissors. The curl came away in his hand, and Charlie let it fall to the desk so he could feel for another. If he cut them all off, maybe he would remember.

Better yet – maybe he would forget.

End, Chapter 29


	30. A Long and Winding Road

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 30: A Long and Winding Road**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

"Charles." Larry stood in the doorway, shocked.

Charlie paused, scissors in mid-air, and Larry looked at him with concern. His friend was shaking, tears on his face, and Larry watched in shock as he raised the scissors to his hair again. He could see one curly lock already lying on the desk, and he darted forward and put a restraining hand over Charlie's, gently guiding the scissors back down to the desk.

"Charles, I'm not sure what sort of grooming whim has possessed you, but I can assure you that self-mutilation is not something you will look back on with satisfaction."

He pulled a chair closer to Charlie's and laid a hand on his friend's back. Charlie's shoulders were slumped, and he stared at his desk, his face contorted with grief.

"Everything's gone," he whispered.

Larry looked at him, frowning. It had seemed as though Charlie had been improving over the last few weeks, and this sudden breakdown was startling, and frightening. "Define 'everything'," he requested, trying to make sense out of this new setback.

Charlie wouldn't look at him; he rested his face in his hands. "I can't even remember our first date," he moaned. "She's gone, and I'm losing my memories of her, too." He looked up at Larry, suddenly, his eyes tortured. "I can't do this anymore. I've lost her; I've lost the brother I thought I had. Everywhere I go I see them – I can't escape…CalSci reminds me of her, I can't go anywhere in my house, without seeing a reminder of Don. My own bed isn't even safe – I dream of -," he broke off and looked down at his desk again. "There's nowhere to go."

Larry looked at him sadly. He had the feeling that it might be good for Charlie to go somewhere for awhile, to escape to somewhere neutral while he dealt with his feelings, but that was the last thing he'd recommend, in Charlie's current state of mind. To be honest, his friend was frightening him, and he knew instinctively that he shouldn't be alone. He slid the scissors away, gently, and tucked them quietly in a half-open drawer, patting Charlie awkwardly on the back. "Charles, I know it's difficult, but I know you can work through this. You've always been so… tenacious, had such strength of mind…

"What strength of mind?" Charlie interrupted bitterly. "I can't even reason my way through the Eppes Convergence. I've sat down to work through it twenty times since the hospital – I get partway through it and I hit a wall. Just like I blanked when I tried to remember my first date with Amita. Everything that meant something to me is gone. My mind is a wreck, my life is a wreck…I wish I could start over, or end it…"

Larry felt a stab of fear. "Charles," he said sternly, "Don't ever say those words again. So you've got a bit of a block on the Eppes Convergence. Look at the progress you've made over the last few weeks – your thinking and reasoning powers seem to be at full capacity again, except for that. And the Convergence certainly wasn't an intuitively easy piece of work; that's why it was so significant to begin with. There's no reason to expect that you won't recover that ability, or the rest of your memory. And if you haven't noticed, your brother is far from gone. When I last looked, he still seemed to reside in the same universe that we are in. There are people around you who care about you – you need to lean on them."

Charlie snorted in derision. "I'll admit Don is pretty good at making people think he cares about them – he had me going for three years." He looked at Larry sadly. "That Don never really existed -," his eyes wandered to a spot across the room, and Larry followed his gaze to small framed photograph on a shelf; a snapshot of Charlie and Don in a happier time, smiling, arms over each other's shoulders. "The brother that I thought I had is just as dead as the woman I loved."

Silence descended in the room for a moment, and Charlie sighed, and sat back in his chair. "Look, I'm sorry about this – I'm okay now, I just kind of lost it for a minute." As if to prove his point, he found Larry's eyes, and looked at him levelly. "Thanks for listening. And I promise; I'll go to the barber for my next trim."

Larry looked back at him uncertainly. He had the feeling that the seemingly collected man looking at him now was a sham – that Charlie was trying to make him feel comfortable enough to leave. Although he did look significantly calmer now; maybe he just needed to get some things off his chest…

"Charles, you know I'm available whenever you want to talk."

Charlie felt a little twinge of guilt at that. He'd been talking of losing everything, but he still had Larry – the faithful friend who had been a constant in his life for so many years.

"I know that, Larry, thank you," he said, a bit abashed, and watched as Larry left the room, with a quick, uneasy, backward glance. Yes, he still had Larry – but as well-meaning as his friend was, he couldn't even begin to fix the hell that Charlie's life had become. The office suddenly seemed close, confining, and Charlie knew that home was no better. He needed out, he needed to get away from this somehow, to leave it all behind…but he didn't know how. He couldn't drive yet, and plane tickets were traceable – if he tried to fly anywhere, he had no doubt that Don would track him down, and bring him home, like an errant child. He could almost picture the look of anger and disgust on his brother's face…

"Professor Eppes."

He looked up at the cheerful voice. "Sven." One of CalSci's brightest graduate students, Sven Sjostrom, stood in the doorway. He'd been a prodigy at Stockholm and had come to CalSci for graduate work in math and physics.

Sven adjusted the strap of his book bag, and stepped forward, his hand out. Tall, blond, with a thick blond beard, he already looked professorial. His lilting Swedish accent and infectious grin couldn't help but make Charlie smile. "I'm leaving tomorrow for MIT," Sven said. "I yust wanted to stop and say good-bye."

Charlie rose and clasped his hand. "I read your theses – great work, both of them. Good luck to you."

Sven's grin widened at the praise. "Thank you, Professor. I want to say that you were my favorite teacher here, was such an honor to be in your classes."

Charlie smiled. He had a sudden image of Sven, and other eager students like him, in his lecture hall, in his classroom, and for just a moment, he felt a longing for that again– to teach, to inspire... "It was an honor to have you, Sven. When is your flight? You said tomorrow?"

Sven grinned and shook his head. "Oh, I'm yust a poor grad student. Plus, I need to have my car in Boston – I am driving, not flying. I'm thinking it is a good way to see this country, ja?"

Charlie nodded, and held out his hand once more. "That's a long trip by yourself. Just be careful. Best of luck."

"Ja, sure," replied Sven, shaking his hand, and with a nod and another grin, headed for the door. Charlie watched him go, feeling suddenly envious. To leave everything behind, to start fresh – Sven was doing exactly what Charlie desperately wanted to do.

Sjostrom was almost at the door when the thought occurred to Charlie. He grabbed his cane, limping forward. "Sven – hold on, just a minute. I want to ask you something…"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Penfield stared scowling at the limping figure as it came toward the CalSci parking lot. He was slumped in the driver's seat of a nondescript rental car, a baseball cap pulled low over his face, parked well back in the lot. He'd been in town for four days, and it was as close as he'd dared to come to the campus. Too many people could recognize him here.

He muttered to himself as Charlie limped up the car, and got in the passenger seat. He could see Fleinhardt at the wheel. Eppes apparently still couldn't drive himself, and unfortunately for Marshall, it meant that he was never alone – either Fleinhardt or his father was always with him. Penfield had skulked around the outskirts of campus and Charlie's house for four days, without seeing the remotest opportunity.

He swung out behind them, tailing them, keeping a few cars in between. They stopped at a bank, and Penfield perked up, thinking that maybe Fleinhardt would go in, and leave Charlie in the car. He pulled into a spot along the curb half a block back, looking around. It was pretty busy on this street, but – "Damn," he cursed to himself as he saw that it was Charlie who got out, limping into the bank. He had the sudden wild thought that he could go in, posing as a bank robber, and shoot Eppes in the process – they'd never think to look for Penfield, it would seem like a random act – that Eppes had just gotten in the way. His hand went inside his jacket, almost unconsciously, to the gun he'd picked up from the street thug in Kansas City, a 38 with the serial number filed off. He wondered how many people were in the bank. He hesitated, too long – Eppes was coming out again – and there were just too many cars, too many people on this street.

He swung out behind them, wondering where else they might be going, and was disappointed to see them heading back for the Eppes home. They turned down Eppes' street, and he cruised past the end of it, catching a glimpse of Don's SUV, parked at the curb. Apparently trying to get to him at his house was not going to be an option tonight, either. He growled in frustration. Another day shot.

He drove for a few blocks, stewing, until a corner bar/restaurant beckoned. He needed to eat, and a drink didn't sound half-bad either.

He was halfway inside, when he realized it was packed with CalSci students. He stopped for a moment, frustrated; he hadn't expected students this many blocks from campus. It was a small place, and it would have been more noticeable if he turned around and went out, so he made for a corner booth in the back. He'd grown a beard and had dyed it and his hair black, and was wearing a blue windbreaker with "Jim" monogrammed on the front, that he'd lifted at a truck stop. With that and ball cap, he was sure he looked like just another blue-collar working stiff. Just to be sure, he sat with his back to them. The waitress brought him a menu, and he ordered Scotch, neat, half-listening to the students congregated around the bar.

"So here's to Sven," one of them was saying, "and a new career at MIT. May your equations always diffentiate, may your magnetic fields flux, may your strings always vibrate, may -,"

"Shut up, Peters. Let's drink already. To Sven Sjostrom, best of luck."

The crowd raised their drinks, mostly beer, Penfield noticed with a smirk, as he glanced at them over his shoulder. How plebian. He'd come so far since college, he thought smugly, before the recollection of his present circumstances hit him. On the run, and running out of cash, thanks to goddamn Eppes. His face twisted in hate. The waitress set the Scotch down on a cocktail napkin, with a cautious look at him, and he ordered another. "Make it a double."

He took a large gulp of his drink, and scowled at the menu. Food had suddenly lost its appeal.

"So guess what," one of the students was saying. Penfield shot a glance over his shoulder at the speaker; it was the one the students had called Sven. Penfield turned back around, hunched over his glass, and lifted it to his lips. "Guess who's riding with me to MIT?"

"What Sven, you finally find a girlfriend?" the one named Peters asked, and raucous laughter filled the room.

Sven grinned amiably. "No, no girlfriend. Professor Eppes." Penfield choked on his drink, and it was only with a great effort that he kept his eyes forward.

"You're shittin' me. Eppes is riding to MIT with you? The dude's got to have money, why wouldn't he fly?"

Sven shrugged. "He said he needs to be there for next week, and had planned on flying, but when I said something about seeing the country, he thought it was a good idea. He said he didn't think it was a good thing to travel alone for so long, and he would keep me awake, and pay my gas. It is a good deal, ja?"

"Hell, yeah. That's pretty nice of him," said one of them, a little dubiously.

"You know, though, I can totally see that," said another one. "Eppes is pretty cool like that."

Penfield ground his teeth, and tossed down the rest of his drink. Wouldn't you know, he'd walked into a goddamn Eppes fan club meeting. He waited impatiently to hear more, barely noticing as the waitress set a fresh drink next to him. His hand curled around it automatically, and he slugged another gulp.

"Ja," said Sven happily. "I think so too. I pick him up at his house tomorrow morning at six. We will have – what do you say – a road trip."

"On the road with Charles Eppes," intoned Peters, as if announcing a news show. "That actually sounds a little scary to me."

"That's because you flunked his last class, Peters. You'd be afraid he'd find out how little you really know."

"You know what I'd ask him," said Peters to Sven. "I'd ask him about that whole Colombian drug cartel thing. I bet there's an awesome story there."

"You would, you idiot," retorted another student. "That's when that car accident happened – the one that killed Professor Ramanujan, the one he hurt his leg in."

"I heard a rumor that there was a lot more to it than that," said Peters.

"So what if there is – you're going to rub it in his face? You know he was seeing Dr. Ramanujan."

Peters shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that wouldn't be a good idea."

"No kidding, Einstein. Anyway, he's like a national hero, after that. Can you imagine, getting your hands on all that money, and just sending it off to orphanages and stuff…"

Penfield choked down the rest of his drink and stood. He couldn't stand it anymore. Head down, he pushed past the students and out the door. They ignored him; none of the idiots had any idea who he really was. It didn't matter, though, he thought, as he climbed a little woozily into the seat of his car. A slow grin spread to his face. There was opportunity here; he could smell it. If not on the road, then in Boston. He had the advantage there – he'd spent a lot more time in Boston than Eppes had – he knew his way around. He could see it now – an unfamiliar city, Eppes wanders into a place he shouldn't be, a senseless mugging…he could make it look good. It was only a matter of time.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan plodded wearily down the stairs at 6:30 the next morning. He didn't need the smell of coffee to tell him Charlie was already up. He'd heard him up and moving around at 5:00. It wasn't uncommon for his son to get up much earlier than he needed to these days; he knew that Charlie wasn't sleeping well.

The kitchen was empty, but that wasn't that unusual either. Charlie spent most of his time at home in the garage, whether or not Don was around. Alan rubbed his face and poured himself a mug of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. He stared blearily at the note in front of him; it didn't really register at first, and he picked it up as he took at swig of coffee.

_Dear Dad,_

_Don't need a ride this morning – one of my students picked me up. _

_Love, Charlie_

Alan smiled to himself as he read it. The fact that his son had found a way to campus without him was comforting, somehow; Alan had gotten the impression up until now that Charlie was humoring him – if it weren't for Alan taking him, he might not be bothering with school. Obviously, thankfully, he was wrong. Millie had been correct; getting Charlie back at school had been a good idea. He mused a little over the "Love" at the end – Charlie didn't ordinarily tack that endearment on the end of his notes. It gave Alan a warm feeling, and he rose from the table with a smile.

End, Chapter 30


	31. MIA

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 31: MIA**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Megan drew strength from the fact that Don's eyes were effectively hidden behind the sunglasses, as well as from the fact that both hands were planted firmly on the steering wheel. "That went well," she murmured, pretending to look at her notes. "Very cooperative witness."

"Mmmm," Don responded, giving the SUV a little more gas in an effort to beat the light. "Not always a good sign."

"I feel good about this one," she interjected. If her plan was going to work, Don needed to turn, soon. She plowed ahead. "Listen. We're pretty close to CalSci – and it's almost noon." She giggled a little nervously. "You know, lunchtime." She gripped the handle of the passenger door and willed herself to shut up.

Don's head swiveled momentarily in her direction, then back to the road ahead. Automatically, he started to shoot her down. "I'm not sure that's a…." He braked at a stop sign, and to his own surprise, found himself reconsidering. Fact was, he was unhappy about the state of his relationship with Charlie. He would love for things to resume a little normalcy. He'd been holding off on a confrontation because he didn't want to upset his brother. Once Megan brought up the idea of an impromptu visit, two things occurred to him in rapid succession. One, returning to campus seemed to be helping Charlie, according to his father; and if he was ready for that, responding well to that, he could be ready for more. Two – and he was admittedly less certain about this one – maybe a confrontation wouldn't be required. At least not today. After all, there would be witnesses. This could be a perfect opportunity to show Charlie that he was invested in their relationship, and interested in patching things up.

A car behind Don honked, and he started; then hit the turn signal. He cleared his throat, pulling back into traffic. "Um…sure." He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. "I haven't been to that deli near campus for a while. Good turkey."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Earlier that day, Sven had helped Charlie muscle his suitcase into the car, wedging it into the back of his green Volvo V70, which was crammed with Sven's worldly belongings. Charlie remembered those days; college days, most students lived in some degree of poverty; money was reserved first for books and tuition, then food and clothes, in that order. If you were lucky, you had a little left over for beer on the weekends. Of course, for Charlie it had been soda, not beer, and he'd missed out on a lot of the dorm life, the bar scene, until he was working on his post-graduate work. Still, he knew that there was only so much that you could fit into a dorm room, and apparently, Sjostrom had all of it in his car.

As he climbed awkwardly into the front seat with his cane, Charlie felt a kinship with the younger man. He too, had all of his possessions with him – at least those that he needed at this point in his life. He had a suitcase full of clothes, and had withdrawn a good chunk of cash from his savings, enough to get by for several weeks, if he watched his spending. The thought at first seemed exhilarating – to be so free, so unencumbered with things, with the baggage of his old life. As they set off, however, Sven was already yammering enthusiastically, and Charlie felt a sudden clutch of fear. He was about to spend hours in the car with an extremely bright graduate student, who undoubtedly would want to talk higher-level math and physics. Charlie felt a sudden surge of panic – what if he couldn't keep up? What if his memory gaps made him unable to contribute, to reason at that level anymore?

He forced the thought aside as he tried to concentrate on what Sven was saying, and quite a while later, when they came up for air at a rest stop, he realized that he had just spent the last several hours conversing effortlessly – in fact, providing guidance on many points. Maybe he _could_ still cruise at this altitude. He limped back to the car with his soft drink, a little heartened, listening as Sven dove right back into their conversation before they even opened the car doors. Neither of them noticed the dark-haired man who left the rest stop at a trot, headed for a black Toyota Camry.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don and Megan reached Charlie's office first, and were a little surprised that he wasn't there. They continued on to Larry's office, reaching the open doorway and spying an empty desk. Don had just about decided that the two had already gone to lunch when Larry wandered by the open door, clutching a cell phone to his ear and practically running into Megan before he noticed her. He jerked back almost comically. "Oh!" He smiled, and his eyes roved to take in Don leaning against the door frame. "Please, please, come in. I was just…Alan?" He waved them into the room and crossed to his desk, taking a seat behind it. "Hello, old friend. Did Charles forget to charge his cell, again? Perhaps you could give him the land line – if he's feeling up to it." Don's heart sank, and he felt a little guilty. He didn't know if he was more disappointed to hear that Charlie was having a bad day – or to miss out on his peace-making lunch. He sighed, and tuned back into Larry's side of the conversation again, noting the physicist's frown. "…very disturbing," he heard. "He hasn't been here at all today – I just assumed he had fallen victim to yet another migraine." Larry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Are you sure you don't have him?"

Don wasn't even aware that he was crossing the floor until he reached out and ripped the cell phone out of Larry's hand. Ignoring the startled _oomph_, he interrogated his father as if he was in the box. "Dad? What's going on? Charlie isn't at home with you?"

Alan bristled a little at his eldest's tone of voice. "I don't know what any of you are talking about – Charlie's been good, fine. He was up and gone before I came down for breakfast, this morning. He left me a note," he added defensively.

Don turned slightly away from Larry's desk, his eyes locking worriedly with Megan's for a moment. "A note? What did it say? Read it to me, Dad. I want to hear everything."

Offense began to turn into concern as Alan clutched the cordless and scurried toward the trash can under the kitchen sink. "Donnie? What's going on? Larry said Charlie never…wait, wait…_ugh_…"

Don had been staring at his feet, but now he looked back up at Megan, his heart pounding in his ears. "Dad?" he yelled into the cell. "Dad?" His father didn't answer for several seconds, although Don could hear various muffled sounds over the line. Maybe there was something going on at the Craftsman.

He was just about to shove the phone back at Larry and take off for the house when Alan's voice floated back over the connection. "…disgusting. Wait, Don, let me get a paper towel. There's cottage cheese on the note."

Of all the things Don had been anticipating, _that_ had not even made the list. "Cottage cheese?" he repeated, disconcerted.

"It was in the trash," explained Alan. "Ah. Here. It says, _'Don't need a ride this morning – one of my students picked me up'_ ," he quoted. "And _'love',"_ Alan added a little proudly. " _'Love, Charlie.'_ "

Don directed his gaze to Larry, to judge from the professor's reaction if his guess was correct. "He never showed up. He hasn't been here all day. Is that all it says? What's the student's name? When did you find it? How was he yesterday? Is his cell there, or did he take it with him?"

Alan only had one answer to all the questions – but it was an appropriate response to each of them. "Oh, my God," he whispered.

Don clutched the cell tightly and considered. Charlie was certainly of age, and his head injury had not qualified him for a permanent disability. If his brother wanted to take the hell off on some joy ride with a student, Don had no legal right to stop him.

But he had every right that counted.

He had the right of love, and the right of compassion. Add to those the right of fear frosted with a dusting of dread, and there was no question. He wouldn't call in the team – at least not for 24 hours – but Megan just happened to be there, so she could listen if she wanted.

Snapping the cell shut, Don walked over to return the phone to Larry, and perched on the corner of his desk – much too close for Fleinhardt's comfort, as he retrieved the cell with a shaky hand. Don peered down at him seriously and swung one foot in the wind. Every third swing made a connection with Larry's shin, as if to remind him that Don could be a formidable physical force, if he chose to be. "Listen, Larry." The Agent stared out calm enough. "I need whatever I can get. Dad said Charlie went up to his room a little early last night, but he heard him moving around for hours. Yesterday is all we have to go on – no one's seen him today. Did things seem different yesterday?"

Larry sought out Megan's more sympathetic face. "Oh, dear. I knew that Charles was upset – about Amita, about…you, Don…and I think about the prison. He had another memory lapse and when I came into his office, looking for my briefcase, I caught him hacking huge curls off his head. I believe if I had not stopped him, he would have – what are the kids saying? 'Pulled a Brittney Spears.'"

Don's foot stopped swinging. "Me?" he protested. "Why was he upset about me – I've been trying to give him his space!"

Larry shrugged, and looked at Megan again while he scooted his chair away from Don and stood quickly, scrambling to her side.

"Perhaps that's the problem," she interjected.

Even as Don said the next words, they sounded lame in his own ears. "Well, _he_ started it!"

Larry felt braver, now that he was standing next to his lover, and voiced his irritation at Don's innuendos. "Actually, Don, I believe you did. In the strictest sense – when you decided to work with Marshall Penfield instead of your own brother."

Don jumped off the corner of the desk in a shower of papers and books which he ignored while he straddled his legs and planted his hands on his hips. "Never mind that; if you knew he was upset yesterday, why didn't you do something?"

"I assure you, I did! We spoke for quite some time, and I got the scissors away from him – no great damage was done. He seemed much more reasonable and apologetic on the way home…although I did think it a bit odd that Charlie needed so much cash, all of a sudden."

Don and Megan spoke as one. "Cash? How much?"

Larry flicked his eyes between them, finally setting on Megan. "It's just that he rarely carries it, since he was robbed several years ago. It's also difficult to keep track of; I believe he just prefers a simple debit card most of the time. He didn't tell me how much or what for, but when he came out of the bank yesterday he had some trouble folding it all into his wallet. He finally distributed some to his pockets."

Megan had been trailing her hand over the top of Larry's desk, and now she raised a pen to tap her upper lip, "Why would a college professor suddenly need a wad of cash and disappear the next day?"

"To be left alone," Don answered dazedly, as the impact of it hit him. "He knew his cell; his credit cards could be traced. He's running."

"I must admit I was left with the feeling that a little time away from so many outside pressures might be good for him," started Larry. He held up a hand when he saw the fury forming on Don's face. "_BUT_. I would never say such a thing to him in his current condition. I actually thought later that perhaps several of us could get away for a bit during the school holiday – but I haven't spoken with him about that, yet. As I said, he seemed calm – a bit tired –when I got him home. He insisted that I come inside and eat 'one last meal' with him. I told him I was sure there would be many more. You can ask Alan; we passed a very pleasant evening, the three of us. I had to return to campus for a late faculty meeting, but Charlie walked me to my car and…" Larry's voice faded away and he tilted his head to the left.

Recognizing one of his signs of confusion, Megan encouraged him. She lightly touched his arm. "He _what_, Larry? What did Charlie do?"

He looked at her and spoke in a tone of wonder. "At the car, he thanked me, and shook my hand. I don't believe he's shaken my hand since Princeton. Then he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small, polished stone – a gift from Amita. He said he already had too much to remember her by, and he asked me to take it."

"Aw, dammit Larry," Don groaned. "Didn't you see? Charlie was saying _'good-bye'_.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Penfield tightened his grip on the wheel as they pulled into Boston. The trip had been tense, tedious, tiring, and frustrating. Much of it was mile after boring mile of Highway 70, which they had taken all the way to Pittsburgh before they cut north and picked up Highway 90. Every time they had stopped, he was there – watching, hoping for an opportunity. Unfortunately, they tended to stop late; and headed right for their motel room. They apparently had decided to share a room to cut costs; Penfield would see Eppes handing Sjostrom cash in the mornings when they got the bill. It meant that Eppes was never alone, not that it mattered most of the time anyway. Even the budget motels that they stopped at were big on privacy, refusing to give out room numbers of current guests. Most of the time, Penfield didn't know which room they were in.

After the first day, it became routine. Penfield would book a room himself, sleep for a few hours, then get up early, and wait for them to check out. Stop when they stopped, run in and relieve himself and grab food, then get back out to the car. Once or twice, they had taken off without him, but it was easy to catch up – he knew where they were going, and there weren't that many puke-green Volvo station wagons on the road. There _were_ hundreds of black Camrys– he couldn't have picked a better car. Plus, they spent the entire time yakking. They were oblivious to his presence, he knew, and he had convinced himself that his best opportunity would be in Boston, so he bided his time. Maybe, if he worked it right, if he had the opportunity, he could get Eppes alone before he killed him, and make him cough up his account information. The only thing better than getting Eppes, would be getting Eppes _and_ his money.

Now, though, they were in Boston, and tailing them was getting a lot trickier. To top it off, he wasn't sure exactly where Eppes would be staying. He managed to stay behind them, as they got off at exit 24 on Highway 93, toward downtown. Highway 93 passed through downtown; then swung over across the Charles River via the Longfellow Bridge to MIT. So far, this made sense; no…wait a minute…

Penfield frowned as Sjostrom took exit 23 toward downtown. Maybe they were stopping somewhere first. He followed carefully toward city traffic, and his brow puckered in confusion as they pulled in next to the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. He pulled over behind them, and watched as Eppes wrestled his suitcase from the back, balancing on his good leg, staggering a little under the weight. Penfield's eyes narrowed and his lips curled at the sight. Eppes was obviously still somewhat weak, and the leg certainly wouldn't help him either, when they came face to face. Charlie rolled his suitcase over to the side of the car, limping and leaning on his cane, and handed Sjostrom another roll of cash through the window; then backed away from the car, with a wave.

Penfield scratched his head. Why wouldn't Eppes just go all the way to MIT or his hotel, dump his suitcase, and do his shopping later? He watched as Charlie turned toward the market, keeping one eye on Sjostrom's departing car. As soon as the Volvo turned the corner, Charlie made an about-face and limped back to the curb, hailing a cab. Fortunately for Penfield, it was heading the same direction he was; if he'd had to turn around, he would have lost them in the busy streets. As it was, he followed them only a few blocks to the Greyhound bus station, on Atlantic Avenue.

He frowned in confusion. True, Eppes was going to need a way back home; maybe he was buying a return ticket in advance. But after that long, mind-numbing car trip, Penfield didn't buy it. Anyone with even a reasonable amount of cash would never take the bus across country, if he could fly instead. He pulled into a nearby parking lot, and headed inside the station.

Penfield scanned the ticket windows first. No Eppes. He finally spotted him over by a rack of travel brochures, browsing slowly, almost absently. He watched as Eppes picked one up, and leafed through it for a while, musing, then carried it over to a pay phone. He sidled as close as he dared, but the phones were in an open space, and he couldn't get near enough to hear the conversation, or get a good look at the brochure. He frowned as he watched the slight figure hang up the phone, then limp over to the ticket counter. Eppes paid cash for the ticket, Penfield noticed, and he saw him hesitate for just a moment, before reluctantly handing over his driver's license to the clerk for inspection. And then it came to him. Eppes was going somewhere – and he didn't want anyone else to know where. It all made sense – the car trip, Sjostrom booking the hotel rooms, Eppes paying cash for everything, and giving Sjostrom the slip at the market… the only question was, where was he going?

It took two long hours of sitting in the waiting area behind a newspaper, but when they called passengers to board, announced the destination, and he saw Eppes limp toward the boarding area, he had his answer. Bar Harbor, Maine. What in the hell was in Bar Harbor, Maine? He groaned to himself as he headed for the parking lot – this meant many more hours in the car. As he pulled out behind the bus, however, he smiled to himself. This really couldn't be any more perfect.

He'd been to Bar Harbor vacationing, one summer. It was a tourist town in the middle of nowhere; it would be easy to track Eppes down there. No doubt, he was looking for solitude – why else would he go all the way across country to the Maine woods, without telling anyone where he was? The location was remote, Eppes would be alone, and no one else knew where he was. Not to mention that the place was surrounded by miles of wild, rugged Atlantic coastline –it was the perfect place for ditching a body. A sick surge of excitement coursed through him, as he imagined what he would do to Eppes when he got hold of him – the many ways he could inflict pain, before he died. And afterward, he knew just the place for a celebratory lobster dinner, and a bottle of wine, with Eppes' money… The thought made him laugh aloud, and his fingers curled with anticipation around the steering wheel, his eyes, glinting with hate, fixed on the back of the bus.

End, Chapter 31


	32. You Can't Get There From Here

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 32: You Can't Get There From Here**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.**

Charlie gazed at the glorious foliage as the bus hummed along. It was the last week in September and the leaves were just starting to peak. It was a five-hour trip from Boston to Bar Harbor, and for the first time on his trip, he'd had solitude, and time to think. They were well into the trek – only about a half-hour from Mount Desert Island, where the town of Bar Harbor was located, and he pulled out the brochure in his pocket, looking for the miniature map of the town.

He wasn't actually even staying in Bar Harbor; the brochure advertised rustic cabins on an island called Pelican Point, at the Atlantic edge of Frenchman Bay. He had no idea why he'd chosen it really; he supposed that the picture of the rocky coastline had the most to do with his decision. In spite of its beauty, it looked bleak, a little harsh, and that somehow struck a chord with him – it seemed to reflect his mood. Of course, the real selling point was the solitude. The cabins boasted no phones, no television; the island was accessible only by ferry, and most of it appeared to be wooded. The place epitomized quiet, and time to think.

The ferry schedule out of Bar Harbor was enclosed in the brochure, and he raised an eyebrow as he looked at it, and glanced again at his watch. The last one for Pelican Point left at six p.m.; he was going to be cutting it close. If he had to, he supposed he could stay in Bar Harbor for a night. He watched idly as establishments started to appear in the woods – hotels, the occasional bed and breakfast or private home. Most were relatively secluded, but as they got nearer to the small town, the buildings were clumped together.

He got off the bus with minutes to spare for the ferry, and waited impatiently for his bag. He could see the waterfront from there – not the ferry itself, but he knew it was there somewhere. The sidewalks of the small town were teeming with people, strolling the picturesque blocks. It was dinnertime, and they had flocked in after long days of hiking, biking, sailing, and whatever else had filled their time, bent on finding dinner, and browsing through the shops. Many of them were couples, here for the fall foliage, and Charlie felt his heart twist, as he watched them walk hand-in-hand. Amita would have loved this.

He finally got his bag and limped through the crowd as quickly as he could, down the sidewalk, past a shuttle bus pick-up area, and into the harbor. He found the right ferry, and hurriedly bought a one-way fare, and then wrestled his bag to a porter, who thankfully took it off his hands. He stepped on, leaning on his cane, shivering a little; it was cooler than he'd expected, and the light jacket wasn't quite enough. He'd barely made it; no sooner was he on than the boat began to move. It pulled out slowly, and he found a seat on the starboard side, and wrapped his arms around himself, as it headed out into Frenchman Bay.

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It had all gone perfectly until they got to town. Parking in Bar Harbor in the evening was next to impossible, and although the town itself consisted of only a few blocks, Penfield wasted valuable minutes trying to find a spot – any spot, for his car. He really didn't want to park illegally; considering what he had planned, he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. Finally, he found a place two blocks over from where the bus had stopped, and dashed toward the main street. Once he reached it, he had to slow down to a quick walk – a mad dash through the meandering crowd would have drawn notice. On the way through, he had noticed the shuttle bus stop close to where the Greyhound had stopped. Eppes would almost certainly go there to catch a shuttle to wherever he was staying.

The stop was in view now, and he slowed down further, looking through the waiting people for Eppes. Nothing. He walked forward, slowly, still breathing a little heavily from the exertion, scanning the crowd with rising anxiety. Could Eppes have had the luck to immediately snag the shuttle he wanted, while Penfield was parking? A shuttle pulled up, and he watched closely, as people queued up to get on it. Another pulled up right behind it. So the shuttles did come frequently. It was possible, then, that he'd already gone.

Damn. Penfield scratched his head, and his gaze traveled idly toward the harbor as a blast from the ferry sounded. It was a small ferry, not the big one that ran the main routes, or the even bigger, high-speed ferry that made the three-hour trek to Nova Scotia. This one was small, a local job, with only deck seats, and Penfield's eyes narrowed as he scanned the occupants. No Eppes, unless he was sitting on the other side of the wheelhouse. He doubted Eppes would have made it down to the wharf in time to catch it, anyway. It was much more likely that he had gotten a shuttle. Frowning, he glanced around him, wondering if Eppes had opted for dinner instead. He took one more look around the shuttle bus station, and headed back up the hill, his eyes searching intently for his quarry in the crowd. Finding him would be only a matter of time. Bar Harbor was a small place.

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The ferry trip took close to an hour. It was small and slow-moving, and the island was apparently out a quite a distance. By the time they got there, the sun was starting to set and Charlie's teeth were chattering. There weren't many people on the ferry, but they were all dressed for the weather, most of them in outdoor gear, and they eyed him with slight smiles, the lone woman with sympathy, the men smirking a little. Charlie thought ruefully that he couldn't have looked any more the city boy from California if he'd tried. Thankfully, he'd packed his hiking boots and some warmer clothing on a whim. He must have known, subconsciously, that he'd end up somewhere remote.

He watched the island approach in the setting sun, and mentally congratulated himself. It was perfect, a beautiful gem of pine trees and rocky coastline. A tiny wisp of a town, Pelican Cove, was the only sign of population, as the ferry pulled in and docked. He stepped off and claimed his bag, still shivering, and limped up the tiny wharf, looking around uncertainly. He really had no idea how to get to the cabins from here. He doubted a place this small would have taxi service.

One of the few places that appeared to be open was a tiny grocery store, and it hit him that he would need groceries, at least a few. He limped up to it and leaving his suitcase outside, stepped in. The place was small and cheerful, a throw-back to the small town grocers of the 1950s. Charlie picked up coffee, turkey, bread, and some sweet rolls that looked home-baked, and set his purchases on the counter. That was enough for now. He was cold, starving, and exhausted, and he still needed to find out how to get to the cabins. He looked at the man behind the counter, a beefy, florid man in his late fifties. "Can you tell me how to get to Pinewood Cabins?"

The man eyed him closely, but with a smile. His accent was a thick Maine drawl. "You call them up, they come and fetch you. You got a resahvation?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah."

The man nodded back, and reached for the phone, as Charlie pushed cash across the counter. "I'll ring 'em up." He punched at the buttons, then listened a minute. "Hey Minnie, you expectin' a rentah? What's your name, son?"

Charlie hesitated. "Charles Eppes."

"His name is Charlay Eppes. Uh-yeah, he's right hee-ah. Uh-yeah." He hung up the phone, and handed Charlie his bag of groceries. "She'll be right down."

Charlie stood just inside the doorway, waiting, loathe to go back out in the cool night air. After a several minutes, a battered red pickup came careening out of the darkness, and skidded to a stop in front of the door. Charlie looked back at the store owner uncertainly, who nodded. "That'd be her."

He stepped out, leaning on his cane, expecting see a teenager, or at least a young woman, considering the reckless driving. He was shocked, instead, to see a thin woman alight from the cab, as tiny as a bird, with a wizened, wrinkled face. She looked at least a hundred and she nodded at him curtly. "Well, come on then, young man," she said. "I don't have all night."

He realized he was gaping, and managed to get his suitcase into the bed of the truck, then clambered into the passenger's side of the pickup, and as the truck lurched off into the night, he fumbled desperately for the seatbelt.

"I'm Minerva Caswell. Call me Minnie. Do you go by Charles, or Charlie?" she asked.

He glanced sideways at her. She had thrown her hood off, and her hair glinted silver-white, even in the darkness. He couldn't see her eyes, but he imagined they were piercing. She didn't have the heavy Maine accent of the storeowner; instead, hers was a clean, clipped, New England accent. She reminded him a little of Katherine Hepburn in "On Golden Pond," only smaller. The movie was one of Amita's favorites. He swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly wishing with all his might that she was with him. "Charlie is fine."

"Hmmmpf," was her only reply, and Charlie clutched the armrest as the truck bounded off the pavement, and onto gravel road. The bouncing and pounding, on top of the wave action on the ferry, was giving him a headache, and he closed his eyes as a pothole threatened to send his brain through the top of his head. Migraine. He desperately needed his medicine, and a bed.

After several more jouncing minutes, the pickup mercifully began to slow, and Charlie opened his eyes. A small house appeared in the woods, neat, with a welcoming porch light. "That's my place," said Minerva, but she didn't stop.

Instead, she downshifted, and began to cruise slowly. Charlie saw a cabin pop up out of the darkness, then another one. They ran in a line off the gravel road, set back in the trees, well secluded. "It's slow this time of year," she said. "The mainland stays busy, but after Labor Day the weather's a little too iffy, and most folks don't come out to the islands. You can have whichever one you want, but most people want the last one – it's closest to the water."

"That's fine," managed Charlie. His head was pounding, now, mercilessly. With great relief, he felt the truck slow, and it pulled in from the gravel road onto a small dirt driveway, and stopped in front of a rustic log cabin. He opened the truck door and staggered out with his cane and the bag of groceries, and was immediately assailed with the smell of pines, and the sound of ocean. He limped toward the back of the truck, but Minerva had beaten him there, and was already pulling his bag out. He took it from her, a bit embarrassed. "I've got that, thanks."

She nodded curtly and went ahead to open the door. A light flicked on inside, and Charlie followed her in. It was small, cozy, with a living area complete with a stone fireplace, and a potbellied iron stove. Beyond it was a small kitchen, and to the right was a doorway that led to two bedrooms, and a bathroom. "It's got electric, and baseboard heat," she said. She pointed at the potbellied stove. "Or you can heat the place up with a wood fire, works pretty well." She turned to face him. "Is it all right, then?"

Charlie nodded, wearily. "Yes, it's perfect."

She handed him a clipboard. "Well then, if you'll sign in –," She watched as he limped to a chair and sat, hunched, filling out the form. His head was bent over it, and her sharp eyes caught the new growth of hair and the scar running through it on the back of his head. The young man looked thin and pale, and in pain, and when she saw him pull out his California driver's license, she was seething with curiosity over what had brought him all the way out here. He put the license back in his wallet and pulled out a wad of bills, selected a few and handed them back to her with the registration.

"That should be enough to cover this week," he said. She was watching him with sharp blue eyes, and he looked away.

"Right then, thank you," she said, her eyes narrowing as she took the money. Not too many folks paid in cash anymore. "You know where to find me, if you need anything." With another curt nod, and a look in her eyes that was not unkind, she was gone.

Charlie immediately staggered to his suitcase and opened it right there, fumbling for his migraine medicine. He tossed it down, and limped toward the bedrooms, stumbled into one without turning on the light, and collapsed on the bed, flat on his back. Moments later, he was out cold.

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Don sat at the conference room table, and rubbed his face with both hands, despondently. Charlie had been gone for over a week, and the chances of finding him seemed to be dwindling by the minute. They had spent hours canvassing the campus and interviewing students, had checked all of the bus, plane, train and cruise ship manifests from every city on the west coast, every car-rental place within five hundred miles, monitored the system for credit card transactions. Nothing. Charlie had managed to vanish completely. Don was now convinced that the reference to the ride from the student was a red herring, a way to buy time.

During the week he had gone from fear to despair, to anger, and back to fear again. Alan was beside himself, alternating from crushed to short-tempered, and Don was sure, after the tenth time he'd grilled Larry Fleinhardt, that the man would never speak to him again.

Worst of all was yesterday; when Colby finally voiced the concern that maybe someone from Macedo's cartel had come looking for revenge. Don had looked back at him speechless, his heart plummeting to his shoes, and then roundly argued the point, out of denial more than anything else. Macedo was dead, after all, and the fact that Charlie had stopped at the bank to withdraw money the night before was proof that he had planned the trip. But the idea stuck in the back of Don's mind for some unknown reason, squatting like some kind foul growth in his subconscious.

Now he stared wearily at the lists in front of him, checking and cross-checking to make sure they'd called them all. He was in the middle of his second time through, when he caught sight of someone running through the bullpen, and looked up to see Larry Fleinhardt in a full sprint. Colby, David and Megan were already on their feet, and Don shot out of the conference room.

"Boston!" yelled Fleinhardt, gasping for air.

Don grabbed his arm. "What? Wait, slow down!"

Larry drew in deep gulps of air for a moment, then spoke, still gasping. "One of our graduate – students gave Charles – a ride to Boston. Sven Sjostrom. He just called me – he said Charles was supposed – to be at MIT this week. He dropped him off in downtown Boston four days ago, and hasn't seen him since. He thought it odd that he hadn't run into him, although MIT is quite a sizable place. Sven began making inquiries; apparently, no one there was expecting Charles, and he never arrived at MIT. Sven, understandably, became worried, and called me to see if I'd heard anything."

Don stared at him; then looked up at his team. "He never intended to go to MIT– he saw an opportunity for a ride, and took it."

Larry shook his head miserably. "I should have thought of Sjostrom; as I was leaving Charles' office the night before, he stopped me in the hall to say good-bye, and then headed toward the office. It never even occurred to me...,"

Don gave him a pat on the shoulder, as he went past him to his desk. "Larry, it's okay, this is the best lead we've had so far." He pulled up a screen on his computer. "We need to check car rentals, and travel manifests out of Boston."

Megan frowned. "The credit card transactions would have shown up, no matter where he used them. That would rule out most airlines and car rentals – many of them don't take cash."

David nodded, already clicking on his keyboard. "Buses would be the most likely. There's a Greyhound bus terminal in downtown Boston. Let's see, four days ago…" He punched at his phone. Megan, Don and Colby were only listening with half an ear; they were already on their own monitors, punching in searches. Their heads came up with a snap as David slapped his receiver down. "I've got it," he said, his eyes bright with excitement. "Charlie bought a Greyhound bus ticket to Bar Harbor, Maine that afternoon, paid cash. They had him on the passenger list – he made the trip."

Don stared at him, puzzled. "Bar Harbor…" he shook his head. "Okay, get on the phone, start checking out Bar Harbor." He rose, and picked up his cell phone, starting for the door as he talked. "Try to find out where he's staying, and keep me posted. I'm getting a flight out." He flipped open his cell phone and Megan could hear him talking as he headed toward the elevators, and stepped into them. "Hey Dad, we've got something…."

End, Chapter 32


	33. My Brother's Keeper

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 33: My Brother's Keeper**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Minnie clutched her jacket around her and eyed the lonely figure, silhouetted by the rocky coastline, his hair whipping in the wind. Her renter was certainly a solitary young man. He had spent most of the last few days staring out to sea, either limping up and down the path that ran along the bluff overlooking the rocky shoreline, or sitting, hunched, on a large rock that jutted out over a small cliff. She couldn't imagine he was eating much; it didn't look like he'd had much in the way of groceries when she picked him up. She had decided that morning that she would invite him to breakfast.

She glanced past him at the moorings down below. There were just a few boats there now; the owners would be there any day to bring them into storage for the winter. Should have already done it, she thought, as she watched the boats pitch restlessly. A storm was coming in.

She walked forward, coming up behind him, and the young man jumped as she spoke his name. He turned, and she took in the bleak expression, the shadows under his eyes. "I needed to let you know, Charlie, there's a nor'easter coming in. Won't get here in earnest until tomorrow, but today's the last day they'll be running the ferry. You might want to wait it out on the mainland."

Charlie looked back at her. "Where are you staying?"

She laughed. "Oh, right here. I'm running into Bar Harbor today to stock up on groceries, but I'll be back out. It'll be nasty enough to shut down the ferries, but shouldn't be anything we can't weather, they say. They aren't evacuating the islands. Some folks just might not be comfortable being stranded for a couple of days, that's all."

Charlie smiled wanly. "I don't think that will bother me much."

She smiled back, her blue eyes bright in spite of the gray day. "No, I reckon not."

He looked abashed at that. "I guess I haven't been your most sociable guest."

"No," she conceded, "but you can change that right quickly. Come and have breakfast with me. I make an egg casserole that I love dearly, but it's too much for one."

Charlie hesitated for the briefest moment. To be truthful, he was out of food, had been since yesterday at noon, and his stomach was growling in protest. "That sounds good," he said, and she smiled, delighted.

Her little house was homey and cheerful, filled with knick-knacks and hand crocheted curtains and throws. The smell of the casserole hit them as the entered, and Charlie's stomach went into overdrive, and growled so loudly that Minnie laughed aloud. "It sounds like we're feeding you none too soon."

Charlie flushed as he sat down at the kitchen table, and she pulled the casserole from the oven. "I ran out of groceries yesterday," he admitted. "I was wondering if you could give me a lift to Pelican Point."

"Pshaw," she said, as she poured tea, and sat. "I rarely buy groceries in Pelican Point, they're too expensive. Make me a list, and I'll get yours with mine when I go to Bar Harbor. I do that all the time for guests; take a big pull cart with me." She eyed him over the cup of tea. "Better yet, you should plan on eating dinner here, when you want. I love to cook, and have no one to cook for anymore."

Charlie looked back at her in amazement, as that sank in. "You run this place by yourself?"

She smiled a bit proudly. "Yes sir, and have done it for years. Keep the cabins up, chop wood – keeps you young."

He couldn't answer – he'd taken a bite of egg casserole, and closed his eyes in bliss. He opened them to find her smiling with satisfaction. "This is wonderful – I haven't tasted anything this good, since-," He broke off. The truth was, he hadn't been remotely interested in food, hadn't had an appetite since the prison in Santiago…

Her sharp eyes took in the change of expression. "It's good to get away sometimes, to think," she said blandly.

He looked up at her, catching kind blue eyes that apparently didn't miss a thing, and glanced away. "It's been a rough year," he admitted. He somehow felt like he should explain. "I lost my girlfriend, my brother…" He mumbled the last two words, knowing they weren't exactly true, at least not physically. But for all intents, they might as well be.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said softly. "Accident?"

He looked at her, then shook his head, and looked down. "It's a long story." He dug into his eggs, hoping she wouldn't ask him another question when his mouth was full. It must have worked; she launched into a riotous tale about some of the denizens of Pelican Point, and it wasn't long before she had Charlie laughing, for the first time in many weeks.

She sent him off with the rest of the egg casserole for lunch, and watched him limp back toward his cabin through the window. As soon as she knew he was gone, she headed for her pile of newspapers, and pawed through the last several weeks' worth. She found the one she wanted, and looked at the young man's picture on the front. Dr. Charles Eppes. Macedo Cartel…Well, now, if that didn't beat it all. Well, his secret was safe with her, she reflected, as a motherly surge of protectiveness ran through her. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of her. Lucky for him she wasn't a gossip, like that insufferable brood in Pelican Point. Yes, it was best for him if he stayed here, she'd get his groceries for him. With a pert nod to herself, she headed for her jacket.

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Don was sure he'd made record time from Portland to Bar Harbor. He'd found a flight to Portland, not a great one, it had stopped three times, and one of the legs was a red-eye to Philadelphia. He'd rented a car in Portland, and driven to Bar Harbor, and as he neared town, his cell phone rang. It was good thing; he was exhausted, and nodding at the wheel.

He shook himself and glanced at the number as he answered. "Yeah, Colby, what d'ya got?"

"Pelican Point," came Colby's reply. "He's on an island nearby called Pelican Point. We got his name from a ferry operator; he was on the manifest a few days ago. Bought a one-way ticket, hasn't caught the ferry back. The only way to get on and off is by that ferry, unless you have your own boat. He must be staying on the island."

"Good Colby, that's great."

Colby continued. "I called a couple of places that rent there – two said they don't have any renters right now, and no one answered at the only other one. It's called Pinewood Cabins."

"Okay, thanks. I'm almost to Bar Harbor now; I'll grab a ferry over, and check it out. Thanks, man, I owe you."

He hung up and slowed down, his speed dropping to a crawl, as he cruised into Bar Harbor.

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Marshall Penfield scowled at the children who skipped past him as he prowled through the quaint Bar Harbor downtown. He had been here for days, and there was no sign of Eppes. He'd checked as many lodgings as he was able, pretending to be looking for a buddy of his, but not all of them were accommodating with respect to giving out information. He was sure that there were other places, tucked away in the woods, which he hadn't even found yet. How in the hell could he follow him all the way to this podunk little place, and then lose him? It defied reason. He looked sourly at a smiling young couple as they passed him, and had almost stepped out to cross the street when he saw him.

He had to look twice, but he was sure. He watched the figure cross the street half a block down, and head purposefully toward the wharf. Don Eppes. So Charlie was still here, somewhere. Although if his brother was with him; this could very well spoil Penfield's plans. Still, this was finally something.

He tailed him, staying well back, and watched him buy a ferry ticket at the booth, and then continue down the wharf to the smallest ferry, trailing a tiny woman lugging a cart of groceries. The ferry sign-in was lying there in plain view as Penfield stepped up to the booth window. The last passenger to sign was Don Eppes, and the destination, Pelican Point. He looked up at the teller. "I need one ticket to Pelican Point."

The teller, an old man in a grimy T-shirt, frowned at him. "You know, there's a nor'easter comin' in. Last ferry back from Pelican Point is at seven-thirty tonight, then they shut 'em down for two days."

"That's okay," said Penfield evenly. "I just need a one-way ticket for now. I'm staying with a friend on the island." He shot a glance down the wharf, and caught a glimpse of Don, stepping onto the ferry, helping the old woman with her cart. Goddamn boy scout, that Eppes. "Not this trip though, I'll take the next one."

The man shook his head, but pushed a ticket at him. "Twelve dollars. Next one leaves at six."

Penfield glanced at his watch as he headed back toward town. Three o'clock. He was brimming with anticipation again; he hated to wait, but he could hardly get on the same ferry as Don Eppes. He settled into a chair at a sidewalk café, and smiled at the pretty girl who came to take his order, as the ferry sounded, and left the dock. Things were looking up.

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Don had a hard time sitting still on the ferry ride. The coastline, beautiful even on a gray day, with its glorious foliage and picturesque lobster boats, was lost on him. He sat, paced, and sat again, and finally made his way up to the front, to see the approaching island. The tiny woman he'd helped on board was sitting there alone, and it occurred to him that the groceries must mean she was a resident of the island. Maybe she knew Pinewood Cabins.

He sat down next to her, and she shot him a brief smile, and sharp glance out of piercing blue eyes. She looked ancient, but as sharp as a tack. Don cleared his throat. "Do you live on the island?" he asked.

She nodded. "Ever since I was married, oh, now let's see, nearly sixty years ago." She raised an eyebrow. "I married young."

Don smiled, purposely getting the age wrong. "Sixteen years ago isn't all that long."

She tossed her head back and laughed at that, revealing even white teeth. '_This one's a charmer_,' she thought. _'Good looking, too.'_

His expression sobered suddenly. "I actually was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Pinewood Cabins, or how to contact the owner."

She eyed him, eyes narrowed, but still smiling. "The second one's easy. You're looking at her."

"Really." Don tried to hide his surprise. "Have you had any renters this last week? I'm looking for someone, maybe you've seen him. About five-seven, dark curly hair."

He saw her face close up and the blue eyes fill with suspicion. "Who wants to know?"

'_Bingo_,' he thought, his heart beating a little faster. He pulled out his badge and ID. "Don Eppes. I'm looking for my brother, Charlie."

She took the badge from him and scrutinized it closely, then seemingly satisfied, handed it back to him. "Yes, he's staying with me. Got there a few days ago. What do you want with him?"

Don was a bit taken aback by the question, but felt somehow that she was being protective, not nosy. "He took off without telling anyone last week. We didn't know where he had gone – I just wanted to make sure he was okay." '_And to talk him into coming home,' _he added to himself.

She nodded, but looked back out over the water. "Sometimes folks just need time to deal with things," she said. She looked back at him. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Don gaped back at her. "My loss?"

"Your brother," she said, as if he was a bit slow. "Charlie said he lost his girlfriend and his brother recently."

Don felt his heart twist and dip, a strange sinking sensation in his chest. "Oh," he said faintly. "Right. Thanks."

She watched the forlorn expression creep over his face, and could have kicked herself. '_Well, now, Minerva, way to put your foot in your mouth._ _I I'm sure he didn't need to be reminded of that right now.' _They rode in silence for the rest of the trip, but as they pulled up to the dock, she tried to make amends. "I can give you a ride," she said. "I'm going straight back to the cabins now."

Don looked at her gratefully. "That'd be great, thanks."

A few moments later, as they tore down the gravel road and swung around, narrowly missing a tree, he wasn't so sure. He shot her a startled look, and fumbled for his seat belt, as they hurtled through the woods.

Minerva brought the lurching pick-up to a stop in front of a rustic, secluded, dimly lit cabin. Don was huffing out air in short puffs and promising whatever gods were listening that he would never make fun of Colby's driving again. As the pick-up's headlights briefly illuminated a carport on one side of the cabin, she slammed the truck into neutral with one hand and opened her door with the other while the truck was still slowing down. "I've got the groceries," she called over her shoulder. "You put that fine young body of yours to good use and carry in an armload of wood from the bin over yonder. Your brother don't seem real…healthy. He's probably carting in one piece of wood at a time. Bound to lose power tomorrow, though – you'd best help him out some."

Don did as he was told, stepping out of the pick-up and was nearly blown back in by the almost-gale-force wind that was already blowing. He managed to keep his feet, and regarded the tiny, wizened old woman hauling bags out of the bed with awe. How in the hell was she withstanding this hurricane? "Guess I caught the last ferry after all," he yelled, pushing past her toward the carport. "The storm blew in early."

He wasn't sure if the next sound he heard was the wind howling through the trees, or Minerva's derisive shriek of laughter – but either way, it didn't sound good. "This here?" she yelled, striding past him with an armful of grocery bags. "Hell, boy, this ain't nothing but a slut wind. That ferry will run 'til Jake said it would."

Don froze in his tracks, sure that he had misunderstood somehow. By now, Minerva stood under the porch light, and was kicking the front door of the cabin. He assumed that was her version of knocking. She hefted the bags and looked back at him. "Come on now, get a move on! These sluts are real teases, you know – when she does blow in, she'll be one for the books!"

A small branch whistled past Don's head and he ducked; then dug in to fight his way to the woodbin. What in the hell had Charlie managed to find out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway? _Slut winds?_

Don was still trying to balance against the wind and load his arms with firewood – he had dropped everything twice – when she appeared beside him, a magical (albeit an apparently disgusted) apparition. Silver-gray hair haloed around her head in a perfect Afro and she snorted close to his ear. "You're damn near useless, aren't you boy? City slicker. Don't know a slut from a virgin." Don missed a few words as she hauled wood out of the bin. "Hold your arms out," she ordered, so he did, nearly going down when she dropped at least a cord of wood onto them. She picked up another bushel herself, yelling at him the entire time – whether from anger or to rise above the _slut wind_, he didn't know. "I put them bags on the kitchen counter," she informed him. "Charlie's sleeping on the living room couch – had to let myself in." She paused, peering directly at his eyes, her own flashing in the dark. "You leave him be, now. That boy's had a hard time – any fool can see that. I won't leave you here, otherwise, you hear me?"

Don bristled a little at her protective tone. Who was she, to try to protect Charlie from him? _From him?_ "I know what he's been through," he shouted defensively. "I was there, dammit!" She didn't back off an inch, and he could barely see an eyebrow arch in the dimly lit carport. Shit, she reminded him of Dad, in some ways. An unbidden thought of the two of them together scared the absolute hell out of him, and he hurried on. "I'll let him sleep. I'll just stoke up the fire, and put the groceries away, or something."

She started to turn back toward the front porch. "_Hmpfh_. All right, then," she tossed over her shoulder. "You be quiet, now, and follow me. I'll show you where the lanterns are, 'case the power goes out."

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Jake had promised to run the ferry until 7:30, and by golly, he would. The 7:30 back to the mainland would be full with tourists scuttling back to relative safety before the storm hit. Tourists and that even more disgusting breed of pansy, the recent transplant. Jake would never understand why these young folk moved themselves off to live some place where they let the first breeze scare 'em off. Some of the regulars would take the 6:00 out to the island, after working all day on the mainland. That group would probably have a lot of groceries and stuff with them, stocking up for a few days without all the newfangled, modern conveniences. Things like electricity, and running water. Jake sighed, watching from the wheelhouse as the islanders began to gather for the 6:00 out to the island. Not for the first time, Jake wished he had invested in his brother-in-law's mainland hardware store, back when he had first asked. The son of a bitch was filthy rich, now.

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Minerva helped Don quietly place the wood in the inside bin, and stoked the fire for him. The increased flame, along with the light spilling from the kitchen, clearly showed Charlie was dead to the world. Flat on his back on the couch, his cane on the floor beside him, he clutched a spiral notebook to his chest. Soft, evenly spaced snores fluttered the pages every few seconds. Minerva glanced at him fondly and chuckled. "Sure likes to write, that one. He had me pick up another notebook in town." She was whispering, and Don just followed her gaze and nodded silently. Charlie had not brought his laptop – probably because the GPS chip could be traced – so the notebook was probably full of numbers. Charlie couldn't leave his numbers behind, even when he tried.

Minerva started for the door. "Gotta get to the house, start boarding the winders. You boys keep them shutters closed. If ya get scared, come on down to the house."

Don drew himself up to his full F.B.I. height. "Scared of what?" he asked teasingly, escorting her to the door. "This little 'ol slut wind?"

Minerva cackled, her leathery skin crinkling in a smile. She paused at the door to pat Don on the cheek. "Put them things away, now. Be nice to your brother." She was out the door before she could see Don's face fall. If he had been nice to his brother, neither of them would be here right now. If Don had been nice to his brother, Charlie would not believe whatever he did about Marshall Penfield, and he would not be trying to deal with everything alone. How many times had his father, his mother, said the same thing to Don? _Be nice to your brother._ He turned and walked slowly to the kitchen, head down, and just hoped he got another chance.

Twenty minutes later, groceries neatly put away and the new spiral notebook lying in wait on the kitchen table, Don sat in the overstuffed chair near the fire and shivered. The sound of the wind blowing the shutters against the side of the cabin and whistling through the chimney was…lonely. This was a lonely place Charlie had chosen. Granted, before the sun went down, Don had seen enough to be impressed by its beauty – breathtaking, really. Yet it made him sad, that Charlie had come here. It was so remote, and secluded. Isolated. It was probably an accurate reflection of how Charlie had been feeling. Don shivered again, and decided the fire could use another log.

He made more noise than Minerva had, even though he tried to be quiet, and Charlie shifted on the couch. Don froze, bent double near the fireplace, and watched Charlie roll onto his side. The notebook slipped from his chest to the floor, but his brother remained asleep – at least for the time being. Breathing a sigh of relief, Don straightened and decided to fetch one of the blankets from the bedroom. Maybe two. One to throw over Charlie, one to wrap up in himself, unless he could find the heat controls somewhere. He stopped in front of the couch and leaned to pick up the notebook, pushing the cane back out of the way at the same time. As he stood again, his hand automatically went to Charlie's head, and he smoothed the unruly curls for a moment. Then he jerked his hand back, afraid that he would wake him, and remembering Larry's description of Charlie's bout with the scissors. He frowned, walking through the kitchen. Charlie was in so much pain. Why hadn't Don seen that, focused on _that_ more than he focused on the rift between them?

He dropped the notebook on the table next to the new one, glancing at it idly. Whatever equation, expression, or algorithm Charlie was working on, it would all be Greek to him. He was surprised to see English, instead – actual words. Charlie _had_ been writing, as Minerva had assumed. Enough to fill an entire notebook? Don was surprised, but determined to give his brother his privacy. Whatever Charlie was writing was none of his business. He took another step toward the bedrooms before the specific words registered in his mind with little jolts of recognition that stopped his foot in mid-air. _Don_. He had seen the word _Don_, closely followed by _brother_. Without looking down, he reached a hand out to the table, grabbing at the spiral. He carried it with him into the first bedroom. Quietly, he closed the door, turned on the light, and crossed to the quilt-covered four-poster bed. He perched on the end. _'I'm not doing this,' _Don thought, as he looked down at the notebook in his hands. _'I'm not doing this.'_

And then, he did it.

End, Chapter 33


	34. Killing Me Softly

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 34: Killing Me Softly**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

'_I'm familiar with the drill,_' Don read. _'It's not as if I have not been here before. Sometimes, I feel as if I have never been anywhere else. After Mom died, and the P vs. NP fiasco, I talked to someone. Dad and Don never knew. But I was so scared, and they were both so angry…I couldn't go to either one of them. They each had enough of their own pain to deal with, anyway. Don's old partner, Terry, hooked me up with this doctor. I didn't feel as if it did me much good, and I only saw him a few times, but he said something that has stuck with me ever since. He said that I'm not normal. HA! Damn, even at the time I thought that Don would love to hear that one. So because my thought processes and reactions are not within the range of normalcy on any given day, it seemed to make perfect sense to this guy that my grief would not be, either._

_"You are not a chapter in the Kubler-Ross book," he said. "You are a unique, complicated young man. You are experiencing what we in the business refer to as a 'complicated' grief. My guess is that things will always be complicated with you. If I were you, I'd find a way to deal with it." I always meant to ask Terry why the hell she picked that guy, but I never got around to it._

_The thing is, I made a mistake. I thought, when Don decided to stay in L.A. after Mom died, that we could be brothers. I hoped, and I felt Dad's hope. His pride, when Don and I started working together. I see now that I might not have been fair to Don – I tried to use him as a substitute for Mom, maybe. Looking back, I can't say that he ever lied to me. He never told me he loved me. He never said anything…brotherly. He was always honest. "I need your help on a case". I'm the one who turned that into something else. _

_So in my 'complicated grief' over Don, I believe I have reached acceptance. For a long time, in Santiago and then in Bogotá, I was in denial. When he came after me, I let myself believe that he cared – even though I was still angry, because of Quantico. Because of Marshall. Dad says 'anger' is just what we resort to when we can't admit how much something hurts. Sounds about right._

_So I think I could find a way to live with the truth now, if it weren't for Amita. I think of Amita, and I'm angry at Don all over again. I'm angry at the cosmic timing of everything. I know I'm alone now, without a brother; and somehow it makes seem that I can't grieve properly for Amita. I'm weak. I admit that. I cannot do this alone…and it makes me angry that he is asking me to. I feel as if he has stolen something from me. My past. My future. I hate him for it._

_I want to think of Amita, yet every time I do I wind up wishing I still had a brother. It all gets turned around in my head; none of it makes any sense._

_The "stages of grief" do not cycle properly. I awaken during the night, and I still deny that I lie there alone. Even in my isolation I cry out to God, promising to do better, begging Him to let me have one of them back. I'll convert to Christianity, if that's what He wants. I'll divert all of Macedo's money back to the people he hurt. If God will just tell me what that magic thing is that He wants, so I can have one of them back, I'll do it…that's 'bargaining', right?_

_Depression is a given. Depression is a description of every moment of every day. None of the stages resolve themselves. They just play in an endless loop._

_I don't know how much longer I can feel this badly._

_The worst part? Amita would never choose to leave me; she was taken, murdered. Don never wanted me. __Ever__. Not as a child, not as an adult. He chooses to remain distant; he chooses to let me go. I don't understand why he hates me so much. I don't understand why it continues to matter so much to me, either. Ever since the prison, I hate myself – I can't stand the skin that I'm in. Maybe it's no wonder he hates me. _

_There's a storm coming. Accidents happen during storms._

_I just want this all to be over.'_

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"What the hell are you doing?"

Charlie's voice was cold, and Don was caught. Despite the obvious, he tried to talk his way out, hastily placing the notebook on the quilt beside him. He wasn't going to admit reading it – at least not until some digestion time. "Charlie. Charlie, do you have any idea how worried Dad is?" Well, shit – that was exactly the wrong thing to say, and even Don knew it.

Charlie's eyes narrowed and he sagged against the doorframe of the bedroom. "Get out."

Don stood awkwardly, his muscles already stiff from the cold. "Charlie, that's not what I meant. We were both worried. Larry's worried, the team is worried. Come back home."

Charlie repeated himself, his voice deliberate. "I. Said. Get. Out. You're not welcome here."

Don took a step. "Listen, Buddy, we need to work some stuff out. I'll give you that…."

Charlie lurched out of the door frame, his face twisting in fury and pain, and staggered to meet his brother. He raised his cane, hurling it across the room, where it crashed through a window. "DON'T CALL ME THAT!" he yelled, stumbling into Don and pushing against his chest with both hands. "GET OUT, GET OUT, _GET OUT!_" Don stumbled backwards, the force of the blow surprising from such a weak opponent. The heel of one shoe caught on the corner of a throw rug on the wooden floor, and he began to slip, further losing his balance. His arms windmilled almost comically for a few seconds before he went down, pulling Charlie with him. He heard a solid _thunk_ and waited for pain, but then realized in sudden dread that Charlie was the one whose head had hit one of the posters on the bed. "Oh, God," he cried, scrambling to untangle the heap of arms and legs. "Charlie! Are you all right?"

His brother rolled away from him, somehow managing to free himself before Don could, and stared up at him with a slightly dazed look in his eye. His skin was pale under his dark curls, and one hand was massaging at his injured thigh. "I told you to leave," he whispered. "Just go!"

Don's found that he could not look at his brother for very long – it was like trying to look into an eclipse and it threatened to blind him. Still he could not depart without having his say, without trying to make Charlie understand. There had been too much silence between them already.

"All right, Charlie, I'm going," he started, looking away from his brother for a moment. He steeled himself and looked back. "But I need to tell you something, first." He paused, looking for words. Charlie scowled through his tears and looked away himself this time, but he was listening, Don could tell. He took a deep breath. "I know you've told people that your brother died, and maybe that's how you feel. I read what you wrote about me never caring about you – you're wrong, on both counts. I know I screwed up royally by doing that class with Penfield, but I never dreamed it would hurt you that badly. I may not be the world's best brother, in fact, I may be the worst one to walk the earth, but I _am_ your brother. I'm not dead, and I've always cared about you, even if I didn't show it. I'm still that guy – I'm not perfect, but I love you – and I guess if you ever decide you want a brother again, you know where to find me."

He turned, and walked out the door, his stiff back warring with the slump in his shoulders, but not before Charlie caught a look at his face out of the corner of his eye, and saw the pain in his eyes. The door slammed in the wind, and Charlie jumped, then put his head on his knees, and sat there, curled in a ball, his brother's words ringing in his head, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he hadn't made a huge mistake.

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Minerva waited until the 7:30 ferry back to the mainland had left. The brewing storm had quieted momentarily, and she decided it was a good chance to get out and walk – maybe the last chance she'd have for a few days. The house was boarded-up and waiting. Lanterns were filled with kerosene, there was a flashlight in every room, and she always had several gallons of water on hand in the winter. Not that store-bought stuff, of course; what kind of idiot threw good money away twice? She was paying dearly enough to have water plumbed into the house and the cabins. She'd be damned if she would pay more for the same stuff poured into a fancy plastic bottle with a pretty label. No, she just kept several good glass gallon jugs on hand, and made sure they were full before the storms hit. Charlie hadn't checked out, so he and his brother must not have taken that last ferry to the mainland – she would stop by the cabin and remind them to fill their own water jugs. Plus, she'd had a stew in the slow cooker all day. Two strapping young men – well, one strapping young man, and one who needed some building-up – could help her eat it, perhaps. She picked up an extra lantern for their cabin – there was no doubt they would need it, before the storm was over.

She was a little concerned to find the front door of the cabin swinging on its hinges. She approached it cautiously, peeking inside far enough to ascertain that her renter was no longer on the couch. "Charlie?" she called, searching her memory for the other one's name. Finally she gave up. "Brother? F.B.I. guy?" There was no answer, and Minerva bravely took a step inside, closing the door behind her, and set the lantern down on the coffee table. The wind had died down considerably, but it had still managed to blow out most of the fire. She started toward the homey living room to get it going again, when a muffled noise caught her attention and her head swiveled toward the bedrooms. There was light pouring out of one of them – and crying?

She knew it was none of her affair, but Minerva diverted for the bedroom anyway, her blood beginning to boil. She had checked that man's I.D., dammit, he had the right last name. Still. She was an idiot for letting him in here when Charlie was helpless and asleep on the couch like that. She would never forgive herself if that man had hurt the boy…

She hurried into the first bedroom, noting the cold spot immediately. She felt a breeze and her eyes took in Charlie's cane, hanging half-in and half-out of the broken window. Glass shards glinted on the wood floor below the window, and she was still looking at them, startled, when a sniffle dragged her attention to the other corner of the room. Charlie sat on the floor in a huddled ball, his knees up and his head hanging. She could see again the scar on the back of his head, and she felt a compassion that she did not recognize for what it was. She and her husband had run this place alone, without the benefit or blessing of children. She would be shocked to find out that maternal instincts could still well within her. She took a few hurried steps to stand in front of Charlie; then creakily and carefully lowered herself to the floor. "Son?" She spoke softly, almost reverently. "What is it? Did he hurt you?"

Charlie lifted his head and brushed at his face with the back of his hand. "Yes," he admitted. "But I think I hurt him, too."

Minerva stared at him quizzically. "Come again?"

Charlie shifted a little on the floor. "I thought…I can't…." He stopped; then started again. "I was sure he didn't love me."

She prodded gently. "And now you know different?"

One hand crept up to his head and twisted in his hair. "I don't know!" he moaned. "I want to believe…."

She sighed, scooting around the wood floor to sit beside him and prop her back against the wall. "Does it really matter?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, his tears shocked into submission. "What? Of course it does!"

She smiled at him fondly and patted his knee. "Young man. It's all black-and-white to you, ain't it? I mean sure, it's nice to be loved – and to know it. But in the end, we can only dictate our own actions. In the end, the question you gotta answer is whether or not _you_ love _him_."

Charlie's eyes widened. Comprehension dawned in them, followed quickly by fear. He looked at her pleadingly. "What time is it? Can you take me to the ferry?"

She shook her head, sadly. "Son, there ain't no more ferries for at least two days. Just missed the last one to the mainland - there won't be any more coming over until after the storm."

Charlie groaned and let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Shit," he mumbled. "Shit."

Minerva patted his knee again companionably. "Uhyupp," she agreed. "Sometimes, that's all we get."

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Don didn't clearly remember the walk back to the ferry landing. It was all he could do to purchase a ticket. He knew he should call his father – Larry – Colby – anybody; everybody, to let them know Charlie was…What? What was Charlie? A mess. But everyone knew that already. The way Charlie had disappeared had clued even the most steadfast believers in on that. They would still want to know he was alive.

Don had his cell, but he was already on the water before he remembered it. When he took it off his belt, he saw that there was no reception. "Out of Service Area" projected on the screen, and he was guiltily relieved. He didn't want to talk to anyone. How could he explain who he had found?

His father would hear the despair in his voice, and would end up more frightened than he already was. Don was grateful that he could not call, and hoped the storm knocked out all the phone lines on the mainland, too.

The ferry was already at the dock, and passengers were unloading as Don stepped down the narrow walkway, a metal gangplank that swayed a little under people's passing feet. It dipped suddenly, and Don staggered a little, bumping into a tall, thin man wearing a baseball cap, who was disembarking. "Scuse me," he muttered, barely glancing at him.

"Not a problem," said the man smoothly. Don caught a glimpse of sharp eyes over a dark beard, and thought vaguely that the man looked familiar. The man made his way up the gangplank, and Don stepped onto the deck, his heart heavy.

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It was cold on the ferry, and the rolling sea was dark. The other passengers huddled in groups as close to the center of the boat as they could get. But Don stood alone in front of the wheelhouse, water spraying his face occasionally, all the way back to the mainland. He felt slightly sick, which could have been from the angry sea. Yet he knew it was from what he had read in Charlie's notebook. He tried to remember sometime, anytime, in their lives together when he had told Charlie he loved him. Surely, his brother was wrong to think that he never had.

He stared into the darkness, and his mind's eye displayed a snapshot of Amita and Charlie. They were at a crime scene – Don's request – but instead of looking at the evidence, they were looking at each other in a way that had made Don a little jealous. No one ever looked at him that way. _Amita would never choose to leave me_, Charlie had written, and Don knew that was true. _Don never wanted me_, he had gone on, and Don knew that to Charlie, that was just as true. Charlie was looking for what the evidence told him, just like Don had taught him. What kind of evidence had Don left for him to find? Where did it point?

As a child, he _had_ been resentful of his genius brother, and the time he required from his parents. Even as an adult, Don described him as "a black hole that sucks the life out of everything," frustrated that he was such hard work, sometimes. Yet it was _not true_ that he never wanted Charlie. It was _not true_ that he didn't want a brother. Somehow, he had ended up without one anyway.

Accompanied by his dark thoughts, his mind replaying snatches of Charlie's journal, Don barely noticed the rough journey back to the mainland. A deckhand running past jostled him a little before he even realized they were docking. Don disembarked the ferry, making his way through the throng of people in the busy streets of Bar Harbor, out running errands and shopping before the storm hit, scurrying to get home. He walked absently, not even sure where he was going.

He continued in a despondent daze until he was at the small restaurant that overlooked the harbor. It was starting to rain, a light drizzle that held the promise of much more, and he stepped inside to figure out his next move. He sat at a small table by the window, and had nursed a cup of coffee for almost an hour, when it hit him like a ton of bricks. The man he'd bumped into, the one getting off the ferry at Pelican Point…

'_Not a problem,' _the man had said.That phrase, the inflection when he said it, those eyes – Don knew him. He closed his eyes, pulling every detail he could remember about the man back into his memory. His height, and build, and the tone of his voice…

Don's mind hit _'Replay'_, and the coffee cup crashed to the floor.

He had just bumped shoulders with Marshall Penfield.

And Marshall Penfield was on the island – and had been for two hours – with Charlie.

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End, Chapter 34


	35. Sitting in the Dock of the Bay

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 35: Sitting in the Dock of the Bay **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

Marshall Penfield kept his gaze straight ahead; as he walked up the gangplank, fighting the nearly irresistible urge to look back over his shoulder to see if Eppes had recognized him. As he got to the top, he turned and stole a glance sideways. To his immense relief, he saw the agent already on the ferry, moving around the wheelhouse. He took a deep breath, and then smiled as a wave of exultation hit him. Not only had Don Eppes not recognized him, he was apparently leaving the island. This was going to be easier than he'd thought.

He watched as people headed for their vehicles, and decided to pick on a rough-looking man of around forty, heading for an older model sedan. "Hey, buddy; can you give me a lift?" The man turned suspiciously, and Penfield flashed a twenty at him. "I need a ride to the other side of the island."

Apparently, money talked, especially to a mate on a lobster boat. The man talked too; Penfield learned more about lobstering than he ever wanted to in the twenty minutes or so that it took them to get to where Penfield asked to get out. He swore the man was still talking as he drove off. Not that the one-sided conversation was a bad thing. Someone that self-centered would be unlikely to remember many details about his passenger.

Marshall had done a little research while he waited for the ferry. He started by getting a brochure on the island, and called the only three establishments that rented there. Two of them currently didn't have any renters, and the third, Pinewood Cabins, didn't answer. It was there that he would start. He'd studied the map in the brochure, and had the man drop him off well before the side road that led to the cabins, near a few scattered houses, and walked the rest of the way in. He could feel the excitement rising in him as he trudged through the wind-swept pines in the darkness. The feeling of anticipation was palpable, and so consumed his thoughts that he paid little heed to the fierce wind, and the occasional branch that careened past him.

Finally, he saw a light in the woods; a porch light was burning on a cabin, which illuminated a wooden shingle entitled "Office." He moved past the cabin, and made his way quietly down the gravel road, looking at each cabin as he passed. He got all the way to the end before he caught just a sliver of light – the windows were boarded up with plywood; he'd almost missed it. He crept forward and pressed his eye to a slit in the boards, and his lips curled as he saw the figure slumped at the kitchen table. Unmistakably, Charles Eppes.

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Don tore out of the café, and took off down the hill toward the wharf. The streets were much emptier now, and the wind had picked up in earnest. Some of the shops were already closed, in a town that was ordinarily open late. He made it to the docks, and looked around wildly. The ferry ticket booth was closed, empty, and ferries moored, dark, and silent under security lights. Further down were private moorings, and Don saw a man coming up from them, head bent against the wind. Don ran toward him. "Is one of those boats yours? I need a ride out to Pelican Point – it's an emergency."

The man shook his head, looking at Don as if he were a lunatic, and speaking loudly over the wind. "I just got off the water. You couldn't pay me to go back out there." He took a step, but Don grabbed his arm.

"How do I get hold of the Coast Guard?"

The man looked at him sharply, and decided that this pale, desperate-looking man might really have an emergency. "The police station's three blocks up – one block to your left. I'd start there – they'll get hold of the Guard if it's warranted."

Three blocks of uphill sprint, and one block of level ground later, Don pushed into the tiny police station, his chest heaving. He didn't even speak to the officer on duty until he had his ID and badge out and in the man's face. "Special Agent Don Eppes. I have – I need to get out to Pelican Point. How can I go about doing that? Is there a way to contact the Coast Guard?"

Sergeant Wharton retrieved his ID with maddening slowness, and frowned at him. "Hold on, now. I can't just go callin' the Coast Guard; they-ah needs to be a legitimate reason."

"I have reason to believe that someone is going to be attacked, maybe even an attempted murder," Don said, trying hard to keep the panic out of his voice.

The man raised his eyebrows, obviously unimpressed. "Is that so? Why don't you tell me about it?"

"Look, there's no time," said Don, desperately. "Are there police on the island?"

That one got a chuckle. "What in the hell for? Nothin' ever happens they-ah. Anyhow, couldn't raise an officer if they-ah was one, in this storm. Phone lines are down, including the cell towers. Power'll be next. Now why don't you tell me what's so all-fired important?"

Don took a deep breath. "My brother's on that island," he said, "and I think someone's going to try to kill him."

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A ferocious gust of wind hit the cabin, rattling it so hard that Charlie swore that the door was going to come off its hinges. Rain was starting, and he was glad that he and Minnie had managed to tack plywood over the broken window before he finally persueded her to leave. He already owed her for the window; he wouldn't want to add rain-damaged furniture to her troubles. He had limped in after she had gone, and surveyed the empty little cabin. The solitude that he had craved seemed to have lost its appeal. He wished suddenly, mightily that he hadn't sent Don away.

He limped into the bedroom and retrieved the journal, and sat heavily down at the kitchen table, slumped over it. How much had Don read, he wondered. He looked up from the notebook, eyes on the opposite wall, lost in thought. Had Don been telling him the truth? He really cared after all? It could be just words – Don was good at charming people. Charlie knew though, in his heart, that Don had meant what he said –he'd seen the look of pain, of defeat in his eyes when he left. Charlie felt tears sting his own eyes, and clenched a fist in frustration. He'd been so stupid to send him away – they would have had time alone to talk this out. Now he was left in limbo – not really ready to leave yet, but knowing that facing his brother would be the only way to get past this.

The wind roared again, howling – it was unbelievably loud, and suddenly, the cabin was plunged into darkness. Charlie gasped, and froze for a moment, then remembered the lantern that Minnie had pointed out before she left. He groped his way to the coffee table, felt around for the pack of matches next to the lantern and fumbling a bit, managed to light it. He carried the lantern carefully to the kitchen table and had just set it down when the cabin door flew open with a bang.

Charlie whirled, and at the sight of the tall figure in the doorway, a smile started to his lips. Don had come back - and then the figure stepped forward, bringing the face into the light, along with the pistol leveled at Charlie's chest.

"Hello, Eppsie," said Penfield. He smiled, and his eyes glinted madly in the lantern light.

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Sergeant Wharton raised a bushy gray eyebrow doubtfully at Don, and pursed his lips. "So you're telling me you _think_ you saw a man that _slightly_ resembles someone who _may_ have it in for your brother on Pelican Point." He shook his head. "I can try the Coast Guard, but on a night like tonight, they'll have bigger fish to fry. I doubt they could get hee-ah before tomorrow."

Don closed his eyes, trying to fight down the frustration. He knew he sounded overly-dramatic, paranoid. He opened them and looked directly at Wharton. "Look – I don't need them necessarily. I can go check things out myself, if there is some way to get me out there."

Wharton looked at the man, the desperation in his eyes, and felt a twinge of sympathy. "I may be able to find someone. I know you're qualified to carry a weapon, and make an arrest if you think it's warranted, but I shouldn't have to remind you that you'd better be mighty sure of your facts before you take any action. I'm guessin' they-ah is no harm in you simply checking things out. I'm remindin' you though, I not recommendin' the trip over to the island. You'll be doin' that at your own risk."

Don took in a huge breath. "I understand. You said you knew someone that could take me?"

"Uh-yeah," said Wharton, reaching for his phone. "Crazy Pete might do it."

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Charlie froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Penfield had disguised himself, he looked very different with the dark hair and beard, but it was him, without a doubt. He watched as Marshall pulled off his dripping ball cap, tossed it on the coffee table, and stepped forward. Simultaneously, Charlie backed up, and felt for the cane he'd left hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Long time no see, Eppsie," said Penfield, still smiling, his voice soft, almost crooning. "I have to say, you've looked better. A little pale, and peaked. Vacation not agreeing with you?"

Charlie's fear was replaced by a white-hot surge of anger. This was the man who had given him to the Macedo cartel, and made Amita an unwitting victim. His voice shook with rage. "Go to hell, Penfield!"

Marshall laughed, and took another step forward, the pistol still pointed at Charlie's chest. "Or what? You'll pulverize me with your mighty brain waves? Save it, Eppes." The smile faded, and something deadly surfaced in his eyes. "This had been a long time coming. Turn around, put your hands in the air."

He motioned with the pistol, and Charlie made as though to turn, twisting halfway. His hand closed on the handle of the cane, and he came back around with it suddenly, swinging it at Penfield with all of his might.

Penfield ducked instinctively, raising an arm, and the cane caught it with a sharp whack. He roared with pain, and twisting his arm, grabbed the end of the cane backhand. Charlie tightened his grip, thinking Penfield would try to wrest the cane from him, but instead Marshall shifted his grip and charged him, thrusting the cane at him like a sword. The curved handle caught Charlie in the gut, and he staggered backward, into the stove, the controls gouging his back.

Penfield kept charging, and barreled into him, grasping the front of Charlie's shirt, and flinging him sideways. His injured leg buckled, and Charlie went headlong toward the kitchen table, trying to grasp it for support. He missed, and arms outstretched, landed full force on his side on the wooden floor. He heard cracking noises in his ribcage and the air leaving him with a whoosh, and the lightening bolt of pain that followed shot straight to his head, sending his mind in a dizzying spiral. He fought it desperately, trying to cling to consciousness, but it dragged him down, into a black vortex. The last thing he remembered was the look in Penfield's hate-filled eyes, boring into his.

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It took a wretched, frustrating hour to track down Crazy Pete. They finally found him in a local bar. In the meantime, Wharton had called a few others, but no one was willing to make the trip, even if money was involved. Crazy Pete appeared to be their last hope. To Don's immense relief, he agreed to make the trip.

He met Don at the moorings, and Don saw immediately how the man got his knick-name. A toothless, manic grin was topped by bright, insane-looking eyes - one of which seemed to wander at random - and a mop of unkempt hair. Wharton had told Don that Pete went out in all kinds of weather, often worse than this. Pete was a little touched in the head, he'd told him, and had an extremely short attention span – Don would need to keep an eye on where they were going, and remind Pete if he forgot. There was no one better with a boat, though, said Wharton, and apparently, there was no one other than Pete who'd even be willing to try the trip.

The wind was howling, fierce gusts blasting through the night, and rain was beginning to pelt the bay's surface in earnest as they left the dock. Pete's boat was a solid thirty-foot fishing boat, but it pitched in the waves of the bay, and Don grabbed a metal hand rail in an effort to keep his feet, swallowing hard, as he stood inside the cabin with Pete. He realized that one of Pete's eyes was on him, and the man was grinning. "Don't worry," Pete chortled, "it'll get worse as we get out to Pelican Point." The boat dove into a deep trough, nearly sending Don into the controls, and as the bile rose in this throat, he wondered how it could possibly get any worse.

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End, Chapter 35


	36. Stormy Weather

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 36: Stormy Weather **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

"_CHARLIE!_"

Halfway to the island, Don had temporarily regained some of his training, and directed the old man to sail around the ferry slip, to the other side of the island. The first time he had been out there, Don had noticed several private docks dotting the landscape – including one at the cabins, behind the main house. "Put in at Minerva's!" he had ordered, and Pete had grinned as if Don had shown him the Holy Grail.

"Damn fine woman," he nodded. Despite the challenge of keeping the boat afloat, he lifted one hand from the wheel, pushed against the left side of his nose and blew snot out of his right nostril, aiming for a corner of the cabin. Appalled, Don stepped as far away as he could and still remain inside, more disconcerted by Pete's continued mutterings than he cared to admit.

Sailing around to Minerva's dock made the trip longer, and kept them on the treacherous, rolling water so long that Don lost the fight with his nausea. The dock was in sight when he lurched out of the cabin into the driving rain, and lost his lunch all over the deck. He immediately felt better, however, and had jumped from Crazy Pete's boat while the old man was still tying off. Crashing to the mud and scrabbling for a foothold, his rubber legs refusing to keep him upright, he ordered the lunatic to wait, wallowed in the mire for a few seconds, and finally found his feet. He had sprinted for the road, cursing the storm for chasing all the vehicles away. "Charlie!" he yelled, knowing that his brother was still a mile away, deep in the woods. He would never be able to hear him, especially over the raging storm. But Don wasn't yelling to be heard. He didn't even know he was yelling at all.

"_CHARLIE!_"

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Charlie awoke confused and disoriented. Discombobulated. For a moment, he didn't understand why everything hurt again, or why he couldn't move. He wondered if he was back in the hospital...or if he had ever been there. Maybe he was still at Macedo's compound. Then the roaring in his aching head started to take on more specific sounds. A driving rain. Raging winds. The slamming of shutters against the cabin's exterior. Nearly hysterical laughter.

He let his head loll to the right and tracked that last sound. The light in the cabin was dim. A small halo was offered by the lantern on the kitchen table. Charlie appeared to be in the center of the circle, sitting on the floor and leaning against the sturdy wooden table leg. His hands were behind his back, and he could feel the rope that secured them to each other, around the supporting pillar. The only other light came from the fireplace. The fire within it glowed healthy for the time being, although each gust of wind that blew down the chimney caused the flames to dance in a frenzy that spoke of potential death. The couch was illuminated clearly; as was Marshall, who slumped as near to the fire as he could get. He was holding Charlie's spiral notebook in an awkward position off the end of the couch, using the light afforded by the fire to read, and chuckling in glee. "Oh, Eppsie," he finally choked out, turning a page, "you've just made it all so easy!"

Charlie grunted, pulling at the rope. It cut into his wrists a little, but the heavy antique table didn't even budge. "Marshall," he croaked. "What are you doing? Why are you doing this to me?"

Marshall looked away from the notebook, directing his attention toward Charlie. As he lowered the spiral to his lap, his sneer was apparent even in the firelight. "You stupid son of a bitch. You've been nothing but a pain in my ass since the first day I met you at Princeton!" He stood smoothly and dropped the journal onto the couch, and began pacing in front of it. "Hogging all the attention. And that damn Eppes Convergence -- I was holding my own, until that little piece of brilliance. After that, I was just another math major to them. They couldn't give you enough...and it was mine! _MINE!_" He advanced a few steps threateningly, which left him in shadows so that Charlie could not see him as clearly. "I could have let it go -- I'm a big man -- if you hadn't ruined my plans for Macedo and his money. Now I have nothing, and you -- as always -- have everything. A national fucking hero." He laughed again and backtracked to the couch, picking up the spiral and holding it aloft. "You are such a pathetic wuss, Eppes. You're always the only one who doesn't realize how much you have. Anyone who reads this will not be surprised by your suicide."

Charlie jerked at the ropes again; anger swelling in his chest so rapidly it may have cracked another rib. "You gutless piece of shit," he growled. "You killed Amita! YOU KILLED HER!"

Marshall dropped the notebook again, and as it bounced off the couch he strode purposefully toward Charlie. He leaned over and backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip and cutting his cheekbone with the ring on his finger. "I'd say you're not exactly in a position to talk that way to me," he huffed. Straightening his spine and backing off a step, he shrugged. "Anyway. I actually regret that the little bitch got in the way. You screwed up all my plans. I intended to be of _comfort_ to her after Macedo fried your scrawny little butt."

"_SHUT-UP!_" Charlie yelled, jerking against the ropes like a madman in a straight jacket. His legs were unrestrained and he kicked out, but Penfield was out of reach. He saw the deranged smile on Marshall's face, and focusing on it, spit hard in that direction. "You're...evil," he gasped, leftover saliva drooling from his mouth and rolling down his chin. "And stupid! My brother's an F.B.I. agent, genius; he's going to know I didn't tie myself up and give myself rope burn!" The thought of Don, and how near he might still be, spurred him on recklessly. "Plus, he's here! He'll never let you out of here alive!"

To his dismay, Marshall threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, Eppsie," he huffed, looking back down at Charlie, "I _will_ miss you, if only for your entertainment value. I read the journal, remember? I've got good news for you there - you were right again. You know as well as I do the Fine Agent Eppes doesn't give a rat's ass about you. He's not on the island, anymore, sweetheart -- I saw him take the last ferry back to the mainland." He laughed again. "Just you and me for a while, old friend. I wonder. How shall we pass the time?" He winked and grinned, his face a grotesque Jack-O-Lantern in the glow of the lantern. "Whaddya say? Learn any new tricks in prison?"

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Generally, Minerva loved a good storm.

She had stopped being afraid of them long ago. She actually slept very well, during a storm. She wasn't stupid, and used the rear bedroom. There were no windows to break, so impalement was not much of a concern. Usually, with the house snug and boarded-up; with all the food and water she could want for several days lined up in the pantry like so many soldiers; she would take a lantern and a good book into the back bedroom. It was the only time of the year she really indulged herself. By the time these winter storms rolled around, all the guests had fled, so there was no reason to get up at all, until she felt like it.

This storm was different.

She couldn't relax, and the banging of the shutters was making her nervous. She knew it was because of Charlie, down in #8. She wished she had been able to talk him into coming back up to the house with her, or letting her stay with him in the cabin. She had double- and triple-checked everything there, and she knew he should be able to ride out the storm. There was firewood. More flashlights and lanterns than he would ever need. Lots of water, and plenty of non-perishable food. She had cautioned him over and over about staying away from the windows and doors. She had found him in a pathetic heap, but he had pulled himself together and assured her that he was fine. He had even remembered to press a little more cash into her hand, payment enough for another several days at the cabin. Finally, Minerva had reluctantly left and returned through the driving rain to her own house. She hadn't felt good about it, though - and she felt even worse now.

She had never tried to take on a Pelican Point winter storm; it was important to remember who was boss. From the sound of things, her old truck would blow right off the road if she tried to go back there now. Besides, she hadn't been able to talk him into anything before, so she wouldn't have any better luck if she tried again.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself. The whole time she was looking for her keys.

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"I'm sure a man of your...ilk…was appreciated," snorted Marshall, standing just out of range of Charlie's feet. "I've seen the movies. A man of small stature, with a baby face like yours and those damn curls. I'm sure you were the most popular guy in your cell. You'll have to tell me all about it." Charlie swallowed thickly and closed his eyes against an encroaching flashback. It wasn't really happening, he told himself. There were no hands on him - it was Marshall. He was making him remember. His eyes were still squeezed shut so he had no warning of Penfield's next move, except the cold tone of his voice. "By the way? This is for spitting on me, you little piece of shit." Penfield kicked at Charlie, hard, his boot connecting with already bruised ribs. A satisfying crack could be heard even over the storm, and Marshall smiled as Charlie cried out, drawing his legs up to his chest in an awkward sitting fetal position. The sharp pain in his chest fuzzed his mind, threatening to take him under again, and he missed most of what Marshall said to him next. When he fought his way to the surface again, Marshall was leaning over him, trailing a finger down his face. "You know," he said almost conversationally, "you disappoint me. I'm surprised it took you so long to figure out exactly what Don thinks of you." He straightened, slowly. "That's one more thing you took from me. Now that I cannot live as Marshall Penfield anymore, I have to give up my association with the F.B.I. and Quantico." He paused in his ascent, leaning over again to hold Charlie's head in place so he could look him directly in the eye. "Donny and I had such a good time, too. He so obviously preferred working with me."

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Don charged up the hill toward the grouping of cabins, slipping back in the mud two feet for every three feet that he gained. He tripped over a broken limb lying in the road, falling to his hands and knees, and swore under his breath. The ordinarily brilliant stars of the Maine night sky were darkened by the storm, and it was almost impossible to see. He scrambled to his feet again, berating himself for not thinking of bringing a lantern or something with him, when a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the landscape. In that microsecond, Don saw that he was approaching Minerva's house. His heart fell – in the darkness he'd run right past Charlie's cabin. As more lightning followed the first flash, he caught a glimpse of her old pick-up, and redirected his trajectory slightly. Maybe she'd left the keys in it... Don ran full force into the rear of the truck, bruising his thigh on the hard metal fender. He had just reached out a hand to touch the bed rails, and guide himself to the cab of the pick-up, when the truck roared to life - taking at least ten years off his. The headlights suddenly bounced off the side of the house, and Don saw a halo of hair through the windows. For a brief second he thought it was Charlie, and his heart leapt, but as he drew closer, he recognized Minerva. He began to slam his hand into the side of the pick-up, and he saw her jump, startled. Finally, even with the passenger door, Don ripped it open, drenching the old woman with rain and desperation. He slid into the seat without invitation, pulling the door shut behind him. "Drive!" he yelled over the noise of the wind. "Drive!"

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Marshall let go of Charlie's chin and started to move away, again - tragically unprepared for the anger that suddenly boiled in the youngest Eppes. "You're _lying_," Charlie hissed against the pain, pushing his legs out straight to catch Penfield square in the face. Marshall gasped as Charlie's foot broke his nose and opened a gash above his left eye. As he staggered back toward the refrigerator, one hand flew to his face and the other reached around the back of his waistband. Sputtering and spitting blood, he found the gun still secure where he had tucked it earlier, and yanked it out of the back of his jeans with so much force and wild abandon that the weapon discharged before he had taken aim. The round, which plowed into the antique table, deafened them both and peppered Charlie's face with tiny slivers. The 38 still had enough kick that he nearly dropped it, and Marshall was still trying to regain control of the firearm one-handed when the cabin door burst open, extinguishing the lantern flame.

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Don thanked God for the woman's crazy driving, this time. When the truck screeched to a halt outside Charlie's cabin, both doors flew open. Don hesitated long enough to slide over the seat and grab her coat. The vehicle's interior dome light clearly defined a CB radio mounted under the dash. "_STAY HERE!_" he ordered, ripping off the CB's mike and shoving it at her. "_CALL THE COAST GUARD! GET SOMEBODY OUT HERE!_" Without waiting for an answer, Don grabbed the flashlight lying on the bench seat next to him, and slid out of the truck.

He approached the cabin cautiously, even though he wanted to run through the front door with a machine gun blazing, and ask questions later. Still, he kept the light trained on the ground and started for one of the banging shutters, hoping to get a look inside. When the shot rang out, his ears easily picked up the sound over the storm, years of law enforcement experience taking precedence over Mother Nature. Abandoning caution to the overpowering winds, Don vaulted onto the porch. Gun drawn, the small flashlight gripped tightly in his hand, Don kicked open the door.

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End, Chapter 36


	37. Officer Down

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 37: Officer Down **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Startled and enraged, Marshall fired blindly into the abyss, with no sense of aim. The same could not be said for Don. The flashlight he held clearly highlighted Penfield, backed against the refrigerator, blood escaping below the hand he held over his face. Having heard the first shot already, the F.B.I. agent was not surprised to see the .38 Special Marshall was waving around. In quick succession Don squeezed off two rounds himself, then went into a duck-and-roll maneuver that should have saved him. Their ammunition crossed in the dark kitchen, and all the bullets found their mark.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie was surrounded by noise. His ears rang as guns both behind and in front of him were discharged. Marshall screamed as a round tore into his shoulder, blood spattering across the distance between him and Charlie, and spraying droplets on the professor's outstretched legs. As Penfield slid down the refrigerator, the second round grazed the top of his head; then lodged in the door of the freezer. His shout was cut off as he lapsed into unconsciousness, and Charlie heard a strangled and frighteningly familiar cry from behind him, then a solid _thump_ as a body hit the floor. He twisted around the table leg, not aware of his own yells. "Don! Don!" Despite its abrupt meeting with the wooden floor, the flashlight maintained its glow, and as Charlie eventually more fully faced the open door of the cabin, his brother's limp body came more into view. One arm was crumpled beneath him; the other, stretched out across the floor. His service weapon lay loosely in his hand, and a pool of blood was already forming under the arm Charlie could see. "Oh, my God," he cried, ignoring his own pain and jerking at the ropes that made him an island separate from his brother. "Oh, my God! You're hit, you're hit! Don!"

"_Mmmmumpf._" The groan was so quiet; Charlie could not possibly hear it over the storm and his own frantic yells. With gargantuan effort Don moved his head slightly, the burning agony of his bicep brightening everything at the edges of his vision. He blinked lethargically, and the beam of the flashlight picked up Charlie's frantic struggles. Don saw the rope that secured Charlie to the table, and noted the spatters of blood on his jeans and his face. "Oh, God," he echoed, pushing forward with his legs, trying to close the distance between them. Charlie was hurt, he was hit – Don had to reach him! His wounded arm flopped uselessly as he inched across the floor. "AHHHH," he panted, steeling himself for another push. "Buddy…."

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Minerva was on the radio with a reluctant Coast Guard sailor when the volley of shots that could be heard over the connection finally convinced him there was real trouble up at the cabins. He promised to get someone there as soon as he could, warned her to stay out of sight and waited for her "10-4" of understanding. It never came.

The spunky old woman had thrown the CB mike at the windshield, and was digging under the front seat of the pick-up for the hunting knife that had been there since her husband bought the Ford almost twenty years ago. Finally getting a hand on it, Minerva extricated the knife and unsnapped the leather sheath, tossing it to the mud as she tumbled out of the truck. She took a step, then jumped back in to slide across the seat and open the glove compartment. She scooped gloves and sunglasses and old aspirin bottles out onto the floorboard until she found what she wanted – another flashlight. Knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, she squirted out the passenger side this time, like some kind of lethal toothpaste from a tube.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Minerva didn't hesitate. She ran full-tilt through the open door of the cabin, tripping over Don and falling in a heap. She heard him shout in protest beneath her, felt the sticky blood that splashed a little upon her landing, and narrowly avoided decapitating herself with her own knife. The second flashlight proved as resilient as the first, surviving impact, but rolling out of her grip. She lurched off Don's arm, eliciting yet another protest, and struggled her way up until she was on her knees, sitting back on her heels and blinking owlishly at the tableau before her. The F.B.I. agent was groaning in a pool of blood beside her; Charlie was half-yelling, half-crying, also speckled with blood and tied to the table; and a complete stranger, covered with more blood than both of them put together, lay still and quiet at the bottom of the refrigerator. "Holy shit," she breathed, leaning over to chase the still-rolling flashlight. "So much for a good book."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

She used the hunting knife to cut Charlie loose, and he had crawled over to his brother before she crossed the two feet to the drawer next to the sink. Barely pausing long enough to slide it open and grab all the clean dish towels inside, she rushed back to the Eppes. "Here," she said brusquely, shoving the towels at Charlie. "You find the wound, put pressure on it." Not waiting for an answer, Minerva spun around again and jogged for the bathroom, and the first aid kit. On the way back, she skidded to a stop at the pantry, and manage to add two more lanterns to her load. Frenetic as her pace was, she still had the wherewithal to kick Marshall's gun halfway to the fireplace. Dropping her treasures beside Charlie, Minerva even thought to reach out and slam the cabin door before she dropped beside him on the floor.

It was much quieter with the door shut, and she could hear Charlie's breathless chant the entire time she was lighting the lanterns. "DonDonDonDonDon…." Finally unconscious from blood loss and shock, the older Eppes did not answer, and Minerva saw Charlie's hands shaking as he pushed a bloody towel into Don's upper arm.

She started to rip into the first aid kit, looking worriedly in the surreal light at the blood on Charlie's face. "You all right, son? You hit, somewheres?"

He shook his head, mantra uninterrupted. "DonDonDonDonDon…."

Minerva frowned, not sure she believed him, but understanding there was no hope of a more succinct answer, at the moment. Finally throwing the mess of band-aids and antibiotic ointments aside with a growl, she picked up another clean towel and pushed at Charlie's hands so that she could take over. "Help me turn him over," she suggested. "Then you'd best elevate his feet."

Charlie nodded, placing a bloody hand on his brother's hip. "Bl – bl – blanket," he stuttered. "He's c – c – cold." The ribs shifted inside his own chest as he worked over Don, gently turning him and raising his feet onto an ottoman that he dragged in from the living room, where he had stumbled to grab the afghan from the couch. His breath hitched when he ran for the linen closet after more towels, and a sharp pain near his sternum nearly took him down. Arms full of terrycloth, Charlie leaned weakly against the wall for a moment, coughing dryly, his own heart thundering in his ears. He only allowed himself the moment. Working against the cough to draw in air, Charlie pushed himself off the wall and hurried back to his brother.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The ride in the Coast Guard cutter was pure hell. Charlie huddled next to Don on the pitching boat, shaking, finding it difficult to breathe, his heart pounding with panic, as a young officer applied pressure to Don's upper arm. Don was pale, unconscious for most of the trip, moaning softly once or twice, when the boat hit a wave with greater force than usual. Penfield, also, was still out; he was on the other side of the cabin flanked by two Coast Guard members, his shoulder wrapped, as one of the men applied pressure to the gash on the top of his head. Charlie couldn't even stand to look at him; the fear that he would lose Don – that Penfield would take one other person away from him, consumed his thoughts, and he kept his eyes riveted on his brother, refusing to look at Penfield behind him, as if merely acknowledging his presence was a threat. He was only dimly aware of Minerva beside him, her occasional pats on his shoulder, her soothing voice.

They were met by police and two ambulances, and somehow - Charlie didn't even remember the trip - ended up at a clinic, in an ambulance with Don. He staggered out of the ambulance, and Minerva, who had made the trip in a patrol car, trotted over to him, concern on her face. Charlie heard men behind saying something about the other ambulance being routed to Maine Coast Memorial, and he felt a fleeting sense of relief that Penfield's malevolent presence was gone. Charlie had somehow managed to give the Coast Guard Penfield's name; they had called it in, and the Bar Harbor police already knew who they were dealing with. As far as they were concerned, Penfield was on a level with international terrorists; he was the biggest criminal to hit their town in history, and Sergeant Wharton had called out no less than four men to keep tabs on him.

Don was being wheeled in to the clinic on a gurney, and Minerva looked around at the medics. "This young man needs a gurney, too," she said, but Charlie raised a weak hand as if to fend her off, and stumbled alongside Don's gurney, as it was rolled in through the doors.

There were three emergency bays in the clinic. Don went into one, and a nurse gently pried Charlie away and had him lie on the bed in the bay next to his brother.

The harried doctor came in, a medic feeding him an update. "We've got a GSW– he pointed to Don – upper arm; he's lost some blood." The doctor nodded and moved toward Don, with a glance at Charlie in the next bay. "What about that one?"

"I'm okay," Charlie interjected, "take care of him." The doctor shot him a look; the young man was pale and shaking, and breathing a little too fast. "Get him a blanket," he ordered one of the nurses, "and keep an eye on him."

He turned to the unconscious man in front of him, and began to work quickly, stripping off Don's shirt, and applying a tourniquet on his upper arm, as he examined the wound to the inner part of his bicep, which was bleeding profusely. "We've got a nick to the brachial artery," he said tersely. "Get an IV started, O neg, and get a type and cross-match." They worked quickly, an IV was inserted and a transfusion started, monitors were attached. The doctor blocked Charlie's view; he could tell the man was working on Don's arm, but little else.

He couldn't even see Don's face, but the memory of it, pale and unresponsive, floated in his mind, and he tried desperately to fight down the panic welling inside him. It made it hard to breathe, and his chest felt like it was in a vise. Suddenly he heard a groan, Don's voice, and the doctor spoke. "Easy there, we're almost finished here, we need you to lie still."

Eventually he stepped back, and Charlie was rewarded with a view of his brother's face – he saw with a rush of gratitude that Don was conscious; his eyes were open. "Don," he said – the word came out in a weak rasp, and seemed to deplete his oxygen; he gasped for breath.

Don blinked, and turned his head slowly, weakly. His mind was fuzzy, but he was starting to regain his memory, and the recollection of the cabin came back in a rush. He heard his name again, and Don's head turned slightly toward the direction of the voice.

"Charlie," Don's voice was also weak, and it took a moment for him to focus. Damn, his arm hurt. Concern fought down the pain, as he took in their surroundings and Charlie on the gurney across from him. "Charlie, you okay?"

Charlie felt an odd sensation, like he was on a roller-coaster, floating. He could see Don talking, and he tried to say something back. The words caught in his throat, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop shaking, the left side of his chest ached, and his vision kept blurring. The nurse beside him was now watching him with concern. "Doctor," she said quietly.

The doctor had stepped aside and stripped off his gloves, pulling on new ones, and at her voice, he turned. He looked at the young man in the other bed, his eyes narrowed, as he stepped forward. A voice came from the doorway, and for the first time he noticed the tiny older woman standing there. "What's wrong with him?" she was staring at the young man with a frightened expression.

Don saw Charlie's eyes glaze and roll back in his head, his breathing labored, his lips blue, and he felt a surge of panic roll through him. "Charlie?" He tried to struggle upright, but an intern pushed him firmly back down.

"You can't move sir. Stay still. They'll take care of him."

The doctor was bent over Charlie, listening grimly to his chest. "Pneumothorax, left side. We need to get a tube in him. He's shocky, get a couple of warm blankets. And ask the woman in the doorway to go sit in the waiting area."

He straightened a little and peered in Charlie's face. "Sir, can you hear me?"

The voice sounded like it was coming from a tunnel, and it took a moment for the question to sink in, but Charlie nodded.

"Sir, your lung has deflated, and you appear to have some broken ribs. We're going to insert a tube – it should dissipate the trapped air in your pleural sac, and help you breathe…,"

The words were fading, and Charlie heard a roar in his ears. Don watched in panic, as he saw his brother's eyes shut, and his head loll to the side. Charlie's skin was bluish-white, a stark contrast to the cut on his cheekbone, and the small red dots that peppered the side of his face. "BP's dropping," said the nurse.

The doctor spoke rapidly. "Heart rate's up – we've got a tension pneumothorax here, it's putting pressure on his heart – let's get going with that tube!" He hit a button, elevating the bed so that Charlie's torso was raised.

"What's happening?" Don rasped, as a nurse slid an oxygen mask over Charlie's face.

Another nurse was hooking up another transfusion to his own IV, and she laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Sir, you need to lie still, the doctor just repaired an artery in your arm. If you move, you may damage the repair and start bleeding again, and the doctor won't be able to work on your brother. Do you understand?"

Don nodded, and tried to relax, but kept his head turned toward Charlie. They had stripped off Charlie's shirt, and a nurse moved to draw the curtain, but stopped at Don's agonized, "No!"

She looked hesitantly at the doctor, and at his nod, left the curtain where it was and stepped back to assist. The doctor was probing Charlie's rib cage gently. "He's got several broken ribs here; we're going to want an X-ray later." He finished the quick exam and applied a disinfectant, and made a small incision in Charlie's upper chest.

"BP still dropping," murmured the nurse quietly. "Heart rate is up to 140."

"Tube," the doctor murmured, and Don watched, mouth dry, as the doctor inserted a tube into the opening, and angled it upward. He winced as he watched the doctor gently push it in and secure it to his brother's chest. "Apply suction."

He stepped back, watching the monitors for a moment; then nodded in approval. "Okay, heart rate's coming down, BP coming up, slowly." He watched intently a minute more; then turned toward Don. "Your brother has what is known as tension pneumothorax; air was collecting inside the pleural lining around the lung, which caused the lung to collapse, and put pressure on his lung and his heart. The tube is drawing the air out; he will be greatly improved in a short time, but he'll need to be admitted for a few days, and the tube will need to stay in place while his lung re-inflates."

"You had a nick to the brachial artery, which I've repaired, and you will also need to be admitted for a few days, while that heals. We had to give you a couple of units of blood, and you'll need at least one more. I understand that you're brothers – I can put you in the same room, if you want." He smiled briefly. "It's not like we have all that many to choose from, anyway."

Don's eyes traveled over to Charlie, still out under the oxygen mask. "Yeah, that would be good," he said softly.

"I'll have the nurse get you something for pain, but I need to ask you a couple of questions first. We noticed some minor bruises and abrasions. Do you have any other injuries that you know of?"

Don gingerly moved his legs and his good arm. "No, I don't think so."

"How about your brother?"

Don's eyes again traveled to Charlie. He had no idea what Charlie had faced in that cabin before he got there, and the thought made his stomach twist. "I don't know." He paused for a minute. "He was pretty badly injured a few weeks ago – he had a bad concussion, his ribs were broken, and he had a bullet wound to his leg. His neck was injured, and he was still having some issues with his memory…"

The doctor watched a shadow pass over the other man's face. "Okay, we'll do an exam – it looks like he at least has abrasions on his wrists, a couple of cuts and some splinters in his face, and of course the broken ribs. Split lip, too. Do you know how he might have gotten the recent injuries?"

The expression on Don's face darkened. "He was attacked," he said tersely, and the doctor could see something in the man's eyes that sent a chill down his spine. "He was tied to the leg of a table when I got there."

The doctor nodded, trying to keep his face expressionless. "We're going to take you to a room, and as soon we're done examining your brother, and making sure that his pulse and BP are back to normal, we'll bring him in with you."

"What about the other man?" Don asked.

"He sustained a couple of gunshot wounds, that's all I know," said the doctor. "They were severe enough that they transported him to Maine Coast Memorial Hospital."

Don nodded, and an intern began to move him out of the room. He kept his eyes fixed on Charlie as long as he could, but his mind was on Penfield. As they rolled him out in the hall, he could feel the hatred rising in him, like a dark cloud. He'd dealt with many criminals before, monsters, some of them, and none had ever engendered this emotion in him. He'd never wished death on anyone before, until now.

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End, Chapter 37


	38. Awakenings

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 38: Awakenings **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

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"What?" Don roused himself from his reverie, and the nurse repeated her statement.

"We need to get you up for a short walk; we need to keep your circulation going." She glanced at the sleeping occupant in the other bed, who had obviously completely absorbed her patient's attention. "When you're done, you can sit up for a bit next to him, if you want."

Don looked at her with a flash of gratitude. "Yeah, okay." He struggled to push himself up. His injured arm had been put in a sling, not so much for support as to keep him from using it.

"Hold on, let's do this the right way," said the nurse. "Roll onto your side, slide your legs over the edge, now push yourself up. Just sit for a minute. Do you feel dizzy?"

Don sat for a moment and shook his head. "No." He looked up at her. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly midnight – ordinarily we wouldn't be having you walk so late, but you haven't been up yet. Maybe we'll just shoot for the bathroom for now."

"Are the phones up yet?"

She shook her head. "No – the wind is starting to taper off a little, but it'll be too rough out there for repairs on the phone lines for awhile. The cell tower is supposed to be back up by morning – they're thinking of relaxing the rules on cell phones for a brief period tomorrow morning. Are you ready?" Don nodded.

"Okay, take it slowly, and hold onto my arm as you stand. Good. You've had all the transfusions that they will give you, but you're still a bit low. Your body will need to make that up on its own. In the meantime, you may feel a bit weak, and possibly dizzy."

Don was standing now, and the room did sway just a tiny bit; then righted itself. The trip to the bathroom was mercifully short, and he was a little breathless by the time he got back. The nurse pulled an armchair next to Charlie's bed, and he sank into it gratefully. She pulled the cord with the call button on it over to him. "Call me when you want to get back into bed," she said.

He looked up at her, his brow wrinkled slightly in concern. "Should he still be out?"

She glanced at Charlie's monitors. "His pain medication should be wearing off. His oxygen levels are still a little low, so we're keeping the mask on him, but there's really no reason why he wouldn't be waking up any moment now. How's your pain?"

"Okay," said Don. Truthfully, he could feel the pain pills wearing off, and his arm was throbbing a bit, but the medication made him groggy. If Charlie was going to wake up, he wanted to be clear-headed. She nodded and smiled, and left the room on silent, rubber-soled feet.

He had no idea how long he sat there. It was probably no longer than twenty minutes, but the whirlwind of memories of the last few months that assailed him, the thousands of fleeting thoughts and mental images, made it seem longer. His mind roved over all of it; the class he'd done with Penfield, the attack on Charlie in his office, the prison, Amita's death, Macedo's compound. Then more recent images, Charlie, shattered and brooding, his confidence in shreds, the days of anxiety while he was missing, and finally the storm, and the firefight on the island danced in Don's memory, like scenes from a garish movie, pieced together by a psychotic film editor. Through it all were two common threads – Charlie, and Penfield.

He studied the pale face on the bed – even unconscious, it seemed lined with pain; and with crushing guilt, he remembered Colby's words. He thought he'd been doing the right thing by backing away from Charlie, knowing that Charlie was angry with him, and fearing that the conflict would be just one more burden for his brother at a time when he seemed ready to crack. He knew now, after reading Charlie's journal; that Colby had been right – backing off had been exactly the wrong thing to do. Charlie had needed him – even if he didn't know it himself.

He looked at his brother, conviction in his eyes. By God, he wasn't going to leave him again, not even if Charlie told him to go. He'd left him on the island, and it had nearly been disastrous. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn't noticed Penfield, if he'd just packed up and gone home. No, there was no way in hell he was leaving him again. Somehow, he needed to prove to his brother that he loved him, that he always had, in spite of the insult, the hurt that the class had caused. God, that class. What an idiot he'd been.

He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost thought the moan had come from him. His head snapped up and he saw Charlie stir, his peaceful face contorting in an expression of fear, his eyes still shut. He could hear the words clearly, even under the oxygen mask. "No, please, no…don't – no, don't touch me…_please_."

The last word came out almost as a sob and Charlie twisted, as if trying to go into a fetal position, turning toward his side; the side with the chest tube. Alarmed, Don grabbed his upper arm and pushed him back, worried that he would kink the tube; or worse yet; pull it out. "Charlie," he said softly, his heart breaking as Charlie gasped at his touch, and flinched, pulling away. "Charlie, it's okay."

Charlie's eyes fluttered open, and stared for a moment, as if still seeing the dark images in his mind, but then recognition passed over his face, and as he relaxed, Don loosened his grip on his arm. "It's okay, Buddy," he said softly, "you're okay."

Charlie was still staring at him, as if transfixed; then suddenly he shut his eyes, and two tears ran down the side of his face. He whispered something under the oxygen mask, and Don, his heart aching, strained to hear. "What, Buddy? What did you say?"

"I'm sorry," came the whispered reply. Charlie opened his eyes again, and Don could almost feel the pain radiating from them. "I'm sorry." He shut his eyes again, and more tears rolled out, streaking down the sides of his face.

"Hey," said Don, and ran a hand gently along his temple, letting it rest on his wet cheek. "Hey. There's nothing to be sorry about." Charlie opened his eyes again, and shook his head slightly, and Don could feel the soft stubble on his face rub the back of his hand. He almost pulled it back, but Charlie lifted his hand and grasped it, as his eyes drifted shut, worn out by the brief episode of consciousness.

He was still sitting there, his hand against Charlie's cheek, and Charlie's hand nestled in his, several minutes later, when the nurse came in to check on him and to help him back to bed. Even as exhausted as he was, it was only with the greatest reluctance that he let go, and after he was in bed, it came to him why – Charlie had finally reached out to him.

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The pain medication knocked him out for the rest of the night, and when he woke, he found two things. One, Charlie was awake again, and two, there was a U.S. Marshall and a federal agent from the Portland office waiting to talk to both of them.

Charlie's eyes were on him, dark and anxious. The oxygen mask had been replaced by a nasal canula, and Don could see the lower part of his face now, bruised, the lip swollen and split. He felt a familiar surge of hatred at the sight; Penfield and hate were becoming synonymous in his mind. "Hey Buddy, how're you doing?"

"Okay." Charlie's voice was weak. "How about you?"

"Good, Charlie – I feel pretty good. I was up last night, sitting next to you."

Charlie nodded. "I remember."

They looked at each other for a minute – both of them trying to read the expression in each other's eyes. The undercurrent of emotion in the room was almost tangible; their mundane conversation seemed out of place, trivial, compared to the unspoken words that hung in the air.

Charlie took a couple of breaths, and spoke again. "They're coming to take me for a CT scan of my head in a couple of minutes." Breath. "Just as a precaution. And there are two people here-," breath, "- to talk to us – a marshal and an agent – federal, I think."

Don frowned. "Are you up for that? I can tell them to come back."

Charlie looked away, and back again. "I think so."

The nurse and an orderly bustled into the room, and she spoke directly to Don. "We're taking him for his scan now. Do you feel up to talking to the agents?" Don nodded his affirmative, his eyes on Charlie as the orderly maneuvered the gurney out of the room.

"Okay, then," she said. She stepped forward, and held out his cell phone "Here's your cell phone. Before you talk to them, you may want to make a phone call. Cell towers are up, and they're letting patients make calls, just for a limited time. We have to collect these in a half hour – I'll put it back with your things."

Don nodded. "Thanks." He watched her leave the room, and hit the speed dial for home. He heard his father answer the phone, the undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. "Dad."

"Donny," his father's voice changed immediately, filled with relief. "I've been trying to call – I guess the phones were out with the storm."

"Yeah, the cell towers just came back up." Don paused, trying to decide how much to say. "I found him, but we had a – little incident. We're both in the hospital – a clinic actually, but we're fine."

"What happened?" The anxiety was back in Alan's voice, which now had a sharp edge.

Don hesitated. "I – uh – cut my arm, nicked an artery, and Charlie broke some ribs – he had a collapsed lung, but he's okay."

He could almost see the stunned concern on his father's face. "How?"

"Dad, it's a long story, but the bottom line is, everything's okay now. We'll have to stay here for three or four days…"

"I'll get a plane ticket, as soon as I get off the phone."

"Dad, no." Don winced himself at the abrupt-sounding order. He gentled his voice. "What I mean is – I know this is a lot to ask – but can you stay there? We're really okay – they've got us in the same room, and I was just thinking that maybe we'd get a chance to talk, you know…"

There was a silence on the other end, and then Alan's voice came, quietly. He sounded a bit reluctant, but Don could hear understanding in his tone. "All right – at least for now – I'll trust you on this. You have to promise to keep me updated, and if anything changes, or you decide you need me when it's time to come home, let me know. Can I talk to Charlie?"

"He's not in the room right now – they took him for a scan as a precaution. They're letting me call you on my cell because the phone lines are down, but then they're going to collect the cells – I'm not sure when we'll be able to call you back. I promise I'll find a way to get word to you if anything happens."

He heard Alan's resigned sigh from the other end. "Okay – I trust you know what you're doing, son. Give Charlie my love, and make sure you take care of yourself – and call me again as soon as you can."

"Okay Dad, and … thanks." Don disconnected the phone and fiddled with it, wondering if he'd just done the right thing. Maybe Charlie would have wanted Alan there; maybe he wasn't ready to talk… His jaw tightened with determination. They had to talk – it was the only way to move past all of this. He took a deep breath, and shook off the doubts. "Ready or not, Chuck," he murmured, "we're going to talk this out."

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He told the U.S. Marshal and the agent everything he knew, which wasn't much. They had already been briefed on the events in South America, and Penfield's role, and Don filled them in on how he found Charlie, on seeing Penfield on the ferry and his belated recognition that it was him, on arriving in the storm and hearing the gunshots, then getting fired at himself and returning the fire. By the time he finished, the orderly had reappeared with Charlie's gurney, and the officers stood to make room, still talking.

The marshal looked at his notes and nodded. "That jives with what we got from Minerva Caswell, and what Sergeant Wharton told us. Really the only hole is what happened between Penfield and your brother, before you got there." He turned, along with the agent from Portland, and watched as Charlie was wheeled back into place. "Dr. Eppes, we just got a statement from your brother. Are you up for giving yours?"

Charlie's only response was a nod, and Don studied him with concern. He was pale, and looked exhausted. "Charlie, it can wait if you're too tired."

Charlie shook his head. "No, let's get it over with." He looked at the agents. "I was in the cabin – it was an hour, maybe less, since my brother had left." His gaze flitted toward Don, and then back to the agents. "The lights went out – I went to light a lantern, and as I set it on the table the door banged open. At first, I thought it was the wind, but then I turned and saw a figure." He paused, stopping for breath. Again the sidelong glance. "I thought it was Don at first. Then he stepped forward into the light, and I saw that it was Penfield."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He was holding a pistol, pointing it at me. He just said, 'Hello, Eppsie.' Then he walked toward me, and told me, 'This has been a long time coming,' and to turn around and put my hands in the air." He paused again, and there was no sound in the room except for light sound of his rapid breathing, as he tried to regain his breath. "I knew he was there to kill me. My cane was behind me on the chair. So I pretended to turn, and I grabbed it, and swung at the arm holding the gun. He wrenched the cane from my grasp and shoved it into me, then charged me and knocked me down. I must have been knocked out for awhile, because when I woke up, I was tied to the leg of the table." He ventured another quick look at Don. His brother was still, his lips set, his eyes dark with fury.

Charlie leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute, gathering his strength; then opened them again. "He was reading my journal, and laughing. He told me what I'd wrote in the journal would make what he was going to do look like a suicide. Then he got up and came toward me, and started taunting me." He paused and licked his lower lip, wincing.

"Taunting you?" prodded the marshal.

Charlie looked at Don again, then down at his lap. "It's not important."

The agent from Portland shook his head. "It's best to get all of the details. There's no telling what he'll try to use in his defense."

Charlie's eyes strayed to Don, and then wandered to the opposite wall. "He made some conjectures as to how I was – treated - in prison in Santiago. He kicked me in the chest. Then he mentioned the class that he and Don had done together for training at Quantico. Penfield said that Don had told him he preferred working with him instead of me."

"That's not true, Charlie," said Don through clenched teeth, his voice quiet, but intense.

Charlie looked at him sadly. "I know. I realized that after you'd left." They stared at each other, and a silence descended in the room.

The agent from Portland cleared his throat. "So, what happened next?"

"I yelled at him – I told him he was lying. He was bent over me, and I kicked him in the face. I think I hit him in the nose, maybe the eye. He lurched away, went for his gun, and took a shot, but he was staggering, and his aim was off. The bullet hit the table, next to my face. Then Don came in, and the wind blew out the lantern. I heard Penfield fire, then Don. They were both hit – Minerva came in next, and cut me free. I guess you know what happened after that." He watched as the marshal wrote in his notebook, nodding to himself.

Don sat, trying to digest what Charlie had said for a moment, his gut in knot. He couldn't stand to think about that bullet in the table, so close to Charlie's head. "What's going to happen with Penfield?"

The agent from Portland spoke. "He'll be in the hospital for at least a week. You hit him in the arm with one shot, and a bullet grazed his skull. He lost some blood and has a concussion – also has a broken nose and a cut over his eye. He's being charged with a number of federal crimes involving his participation in Macedo's money laundering and kidnapping schemes, and of course after last night, we've added two counts each of assault and attempted murder. There will be a trial of course, but with your brother's testimony, it should be a cakewalk. He'll be going away for a long, long time."

Don frowned. "The woman who died – Amita Ramanujan – he won't face charges for that?"

"No, unfortunately; the way I understand it, the flight attendant got her instructions from Macedo's man. The cocaine wasn't a large enough amount to kill anyone, normally, so we couldn't show intent to kill. Macedo and his man might have been facing manslaughter charges on that, at the worst. Of course, they aren't around to prosecute, even for a lesser charge." The agent studied Don for a minute. "You're thinking a murder charge would have put Penfield away for life."

Don's lips tightened. He looked at Charlie, pale and silent in the other bed, his eyes downcast. "Something like that."

"Yeah, I hear you. Still, the things they're charging him with bear long prison terms, and hopefully they'll be assigned consecutively." He looked at the marshal. "You done, here? Let's get out of here, and let these guys get some rest."

Don watched them go, and when he turned back to Charlie, his brother had laid back, his eyes closed.

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End, Chapter 38


	39. Confession is Good for the Soul

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 39: Confession is Good for the Soul**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

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Charlie slept most of the morning. Don napped too, off and on, but by late morning, he was restless, and beginning to wonder if his brother really was sleeping, or was simply pretending. Charlie was a study in contradictions – he'd seemed to admit having changed his mind about Don in the interview with police, and he'd made eye contact once or twice, but he broke that contact more than he maintained it. To Don, who'd spent much of his life reading signals like that, it signified that something was still wrong, and the longer he waited to talk, to find out what that was, the more impatient he got. He'd gotten up to walk again, and decided to plant himself in the chair next to Charlie's bed, so it would be harder for Charlie to hide the fact that he was awake. It was good to talk. It was therapeutic, and Charlie needed to get things off his chest. Or so he told himself.

It only took a few minutes in the chair for him to realize that Charlie was actually sleeping. It hit home with a twist in the gut, as his brother started moaning again and fending off imaginary… "What?" Don asked himself, but he knew, with a sick feeling, what Charlie was probably dreaming about. He had his answer a moment later, as Charlie gasped suddenly, his eyes flying open, his body tense.

Charlie winced at the sudden movement; his damaged rib cage ached with the slightest motion, and he lay still for a moment, just breathing shallowly, carefully. Slowly the images of faceless molesters receded, and he became aware that Don was sitting next to him; then felt a comforting hand on his arm.

Neither of them said anything for a moment; Charlie hadn't even looked at him yet – he was still staring at the far wall, so Don was surprised when he spoke, his voice almost a whisper. "I still dream about it. I can't – make it go away. I don't understand why – it just won't go."

"You never talked to anyone about it, Charlie," said Don softly. "God knows, I'm no expert on that, but I think until you reach that point, you're gonna have a hard time working through it."

Charlie was silent for so long, that Don had decided to change the subject, and was casting about for a way to open the conversation. He had just opened his mouth when Charlie spoke again. "They beat me up the first night there." He paused, and Don waited, not daring to breathe – to do anything that would make Charlie stop talking.

The silence was thick, charged with tension; then Charlie started speaking again, in a soft, emotionless voice. "There was a man they called El Lobo – he ran the cell – in fact, I think he ran that whole block; even the guard was tight with him. I got up from my bunk to go to the bathroom, and on the way back they jumped me – they said I was supposed to ask permission from El Lobo. The guard just stood there and watched. They punched me in the stomach and the chest – anywhere that was covered by the jumpsuit." His voice was quiet, almost dull, and he kept his eyes trained on the opposite wall. Don swallowed hard. He'd wanted Charlie to talk, but now that he was, he wasn't sure that he could bear to hear this.

"I'd never been so scared in my life – at least not until the next night." He fell silent, and Don could feel a lump starting in his throat. Charlie took a breath and spoke again, tonelessly. "It was night – they'd turn the lights down – not all the way, there was always some light in there, but it was darker, and everyone went to their bunks. I wasn't there long before I felt weight on the mattress behind me – and then hands, reaching for me – touching me. I was so shocked, so scared that I didn't even move at first, but when he put his hand over my mouth and ripped the front of my jumpsuit, I just reacted – instinctively, I guess. I can't remember exactly what I did, but I think I elbowed him, and bit his hand. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, I heard my neck crack – it hurt so much I was sure it was broken, and that was the last thing I remembered."

He was quiet for a moment. Tears had started to Don's eyes; he'd bowed his head, and he realized that he'd unconsciously tightened his grip on Charlie's arm. Carefully, slowly, he released the pressure, letting his hand lie there, as Charlie spoke again. "I guess it was for the best – I'm sure I was better off unconscious."

Don's head came up, and he stared, trying to process that last statement. Did Charlie think… "Charlie, nothing happened after that." Charlie finally looked at him, doubt replacing the deadness in the dark eyes.

Don looked at him earnestly. "Charlie – we talked to one of the inmates – he said he broke it up. And I had the doctor check you when you were in the clinic in Colombia. There were no signs of …the trauma you'd expect from that."

Charlie looked at Don as if he'd suddenly embraced lunacy. "They were all part of El Lobo's gang. I'm sure he was covering for someone. Or if he did break it up, he wanted me for himself."

"Maybe," said Don slowly. "But I kind of believed the guy. He said you reminded him of his brother. Big Russian guy – what was his name? He admitted killing the guy who attacked you." He glanced at Charlie sideways. "Not to me, not at first. I was too busy cooling my heels in the hallway after going ballistic." He saw a flicker of something in Charlie's eyes. "He told Colby; then Colby got him to talk to us."

Charlie winced and shut his eyes. "Colby knows?"

Don shook Charlie's arm, gently. "Charlie, think about what I'm trying to tell you here. It didn't happen. I mean, I know the assault happened, and I know that's bad enough, but it never went any further. It's got to make you feel a little better, to know that, right?"

The last question was delivered with a note of anxiety that brought Charlie's gaze back to his face, and Don could see the realization dawning in it. "It didn't happen," he repeated the words slowly, as if trying them out on his tongue.

"Yeah, the Russian killed the guy – you reminded him so much of his brother, he said, he couldn't get it out of his head – admitted to just going nuts. He pulled the guy off and broke his neck. Yuri – Yuri – Rubinov!" he exclaimed with triumph.

Charlie was staring at the wall, again, remembering. "He did – kind of take over after that. I didn't know he was protecting me though. After what happened-," he broke off, ashamed. "I just thought El Lobo gave me to him."

Don fought back a wince at the words. "No, I really think he -,"

"Rubinov," broke in Charlie. "Why does that sound familiar -," his face changed suddenly, falling. "It was a concert – Amita and I went to a concert – a pianist – his name was Andre Rubinov."

The mention of Amita's name had derailed Don's train of thought, and he frowned in concentration. "Andre – I think that's what Yuri said his brother's name was…" He broke off, and they stared at each other for a minute. He could almost see Charlie weighing the odds in his head that Yuri's Andre and the pianist were one and the same.

Instead, Charlie sighed and looked away. "I can barely remember that concert." He frowned, and his voice was tinged with impatience. "I remember the bad stuff just fine, but when it comes to Amita-," he broke off and looked at Don desperately, almost angrily. "Why? Why are all of the memories that mean anything to me going?"

His voice had continued to rise as he spoke, and it got the attention of their doctor, who was passing in the hallway. He stuck his head in the door, looking over his clipboard. "Is everything okay in here?"

"NO," said Charlie loudly, "everything is _not_ okay."

The breath it took to speak that loudly made him cough before he could go any further, and Don jumped in, trying to calm him. "Charlie, Amita meant so much to you, and you haven't processed everything yet. I'm sure it's nothing permanent, it just has to do with the grief you feel – when that eases, I'm sure the memories will come back –"

"Don't patronize me! It has nothing to do with grief!" exclaimed Charlie angrily, through a fit of choking. It precipitated enough pain that it made his eyes water.

The doctor stepped over to Don's bed and pushed the call button. "I'm going to call for a sedative," he said quietly.

"I don't need a sedative," gasped Charlie, his eyes filled with rage and frustration. "I need my mind back! Penfield took everything that means anything to me – and don't say it's just grief causing the memory loss. If that's the case, then why can't I remember the Eppes Convergence?"

"Charlie-," Don said pleadingly, as he put a soothing hand on Charlie's arm. The nurse hurried in, and doctor spoke to her quietly, keeping one eye on Charlie.

Charlie flung it off angrily. "I might as well be dead! Penfield killed everything that matters – Amita – even who I am. The Eppes Convergence defined me, and now I can't even find my way through it anymore. Every time I get to the same spot, the Penfield Variation, I go blank -," He broke off suddenly, and stared at Don stupidly, with his mouth open.

"What?" asked Don tentatively, not sure if he should be glad that Charlie had stopped shouting, or alarmed by the new expression.

"I just said it," Charlie said slowly. "I couldn't remember what came next, but I just said it. The Penfield Variation." He looked up, staring at the opposite wall for a few seconds, and then turned toward Don, a stunned expression on his face.

Don looked at him with trepidation, and exchanged an anxious glance with the doctor. He had no idea what Charlie was talking about. Was he losing it? "Charlie, I'm not sure I understand – Penfield Variation?"

Charlie blinked, and the faraway look was gone. "About a year and a half ago, Penfield thought he'd found a flaw in part of the Eppes Convergence, that would have made it invalid. He actually came to CalSci to present it; to rub it in my face. When I looked at it, I realized that it was something I'd glossed over – I hadn't detailed out the logic in my presentation. Penfield took what he thought was a gap, and played it up as a failure. I had to go back in and detail it out, to show that the logic was there, and that it led to the same conclusion. I ended up naming it the Penfield Variation."

He smiled, a bit grimly. "I really hadn't meant it as a dig – well, maybe a little one. It made Penfield the butt of some jokes in the math community, though. Everyone knew he had tried to discredit my work, and they thought it was pretty amusing that I'd named that part of the Convergence after him." His voice changed, and grew reflective, and he looked at Don. "Maybe you're right; I did have an emotional block – that centered around Penfield."

The nurse came back in with a syringe, and doctor waved her off, his eyes on Charlie. "It looks like we won't need that, after all. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue my rounds. Just press the call button if you need anything." He and the nurse turned and stepped quietly out of the room.

Don broke the ensuing silence. "When you think about it, Charlie, you did have some memory loss from the concussion, but most of it was temporary. I'm sure the stuff on the cases will come back to you too, after you get a chance to think about it."

Charlie looked up at him; his face flushed with guilt; then looked down at his hands. "Uh, well, I didn't really forget that – the cases, I mean."

Don frowned. "Dad and Larry said they asked you about several cases, and you couldn't -,"

Charlie held up a hand, and stopped him. "I remembered. I was just so upset with you I pretended that I didn't. At the time, the last thing I wanted to do was remember all the cases we'd worked on. It was too painful. It just seemed that it was one more thing that Penfield had taken away – our relationship."

"Charlie – the things you wrote in your journal-,"

"I know – I underestimated you, and I'm sorry." Charlie looked up at him, his eyes dark with regret. "I'm sorry about all of it – I almost got you killed."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, no – you're wrong – you didn't almost get me killed. If you hadn't sent me away, I'd have been there with you when Penfield came in, and I'm sure I wouldn't have been wearing my service revolver, just sitting in the cabin. We'd probably both be dead by now. And you're not the one who should be sorry – I really screwed up. When I told Quantico I'd do the class, they asked about you – I told them you were busy."

His face twisted with regret. "I was a little pissed that you'd just turned me down on a couple of cases, and yeah, maybe I was a kind of jealous of the attention you were getting from the Bureau. So I have to admit, it was meant to be a sort of jab. I never thought, though, in a million years, that you would take it that hard. I guess I looked at it as work-related stuff – I never considered that you'd take it as an indicator of how I really felt about you. I've pretty much learned to compartmentalize work – put it in a spot of its own. I just didn't think anyone else would do otherwise."

"I don't take all my work that personally," said Charlie softly. "Just the stuff I do for you."

Don looked back at him miserably. "I know that now, Buddy. I'd give anything to take that back. But you need to know, it didn't mean that I didn't love you. I did. I do."

Charlie reached over and grabbed his hand, struggling to control the tears that were threatening to rise. The feelings swirling inside him – love, pain, regret, relief - were so strong; he could only manage a whisper. "I love you, too."

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End, Chapter 39


	40. Loose Ends

**Title: ****Mistaken Identity**

**Chapter 40: Loose Ends**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

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Charlie stood on one side of the dining room table, his father on the other. Alan's eyes, full of concern, were fastened on his son. Charlie's focus was only on the box that sat on the table between them. In quick succession, his demeanor varied from slightly suspicious; to palpable vulnerability; to blatant curiosity. "What's in it?" he finally asked softly.

Alan rubbed his hand over his forehead; then shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I don't know, son. They didn't say." He waited for Charlie to speak again, and when he didn't, Alan plunged ahead. He pulled his hands from his pockets and reached for the box, speaking decisively. "You don't have to do this now; it can wait until later. Good Lord, son, you've only been home a week! Let me put this in the garage, or the solarium." He continued in a low grumble, talking mostly to himself now. "Should've done that in the first place…."

Charlie found his voice and started to reach out toward the box himself, but then awkwardly redirected his fingers to absently pull at a curl near his ear. "Wait," he squeaked. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Just wait. Please." He finally looked up from the box long enough to meet Alan's gaze. "What exactly did they say?"

Alan hesitated. "Charlie, just leave it for now. Why don't you find your cell and call Minerva? She seems like a nice woman. It's only polite to return her call, you know." He grinned, putting forth a mighty effort to distract his son. "If you don't, next time I'll wake you up and force you to take it – I don't care how soundly you're sleeping!" He inched the box closer. "Plus, Larry called. And your brother." By the end of his speech, he sounded a little desperate.

"I'll call them in a minute," said Charlie grimly, looking back at the box. "Tell me exactly what they said."

Alan sighed. The gig was up – and he knew it. He rested his hands on top of the box. "Just that, when they were cleaning out her apartment, they found some things that you might want." Charlie glanced up, and Alan arched an eyebrow. "Honestly, that's all I've got. I confess, I didn't ask for details." Charlie drew in a deep breath and winced, moving his hand to absently rub at his ribs. "Charlie…" Alan began but his youngest interrupted him.

"Could you open it for me?"

Alan sighed again. "You, sit," he said at length. "Let me go get some scissors, or a knife or something." He turned from the table and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, raided the junk drawer and was back only seconds later – not at all surprised to see that Charlie was still standing, staring at the box again. "I said, 'sit'," he reiterated, cutting carefully at the tape that sealed the package UPS had delivered just that morning.

Charlie started a little, as if pulling himself out of a trance; then obediently moved the closest chair a little, so he could perch on the edge. He continued to watch the box as Alan negotiated his way inside. At last, his father ripped through the last shreds of tape and opened the flaps. Studiously not looking inside, he instead pushed the entire collection closer to Charlie. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and straddled his feet a little, waiting.

Charlie glanced up for a moment. "Um…thank you," he whispered nervously. His eyes wandered to his mother's photo on the wall behind Alan, then to the upper left corner of the dining room, then to his feet, then back to the box. "Well," he said, more forcefully. "All right, then." Still, Alan counted off a full 60 seconds in his head before he saw a thin arm snake out and dip into the abyss.

One-by-one, Charlie pulled items up into the air, studied them, and placed them quietly on the table. Three small, framed photographs: one of them standing near each other when Amita received her Master's; a copy of the same one he kept on his own desk at the office, outside the convention center; and one he had not seen before – it was just of him, obviously cropped from a larger photo. His head was thrown back, and he was laughing. Charlie looked at that one a long time, trying to determine when it was taken. He finally gave up and placed it with the others when he began to feel the all-too-familiar frustration of lost memories. Next, a legal-size envelope bulging with…ticket stubs. Fascinated, Charlie turned them each over in his hand. The fear of not being able to place the photograph faded when he remembered every event represented on a stub. He and Amita had attended them all together – some before they were officially 'dating'. There were lectures, concerts, plays, even movies. He smiled sadly, re-stuffing the envelope. "I never knew she was such a _girl_," he stated, gently laying the envelope on the table. "I can't believe she kept all this stuff." A single, folded sheet of paper followed. He frowned at first when he opened it. What was this? "This is just an unconnected list of words and dates," he noted, and offered the paper to Alan.

Alan quickly scanned the sheet and fought against tears. "Oh, son," he choked out, handing the list back. "You and your brother are hopeless in the romance department."

Charlie's frown grew deeper. "What?" he asked, looking at the list again. "_'Flowers, Nov. 10. CD, Nov. 16…' _" He skipped down the list. "And here – _'Wind Chimes, April 7. White Bear, May 23…'_ ".

Alan shook his head. "You idiot," he chastised fondly. "She kept a list of everything you ever gave her. Remember the white stuffed bear you found in an airport gift shop and brought back from a conference? It didn't fit in your carry-on, and you carried a bear on your lap all the way home."

Charlie paled, dropping the list as if it burned his fingers. "Oh, God."

Alan's glimpse at humor faded. "Maybe that's enough now, Charlie."

Charlie was about to agree, getting shakily to his feet. He had to use the table for support to accomplish the simple task, and in the end he was bent over like an old man. As he worked on straightening his spine, he caught a glimpse of a glossy brochure lying near one edge of the box. Almost against his will, he reached in and plucked it out. _'Greater Los Angeles Symphonic Series'_, he read, his sweating hand leaving a moist thumbprint on a photo of Andre Rubinov seated at a grand piano. He stood transfixed, eyes glassing over, and began to sway.

Alan moved quickly, jerking the box back and starting for the other side of the table. "That's enough for today," he said, inviting no debate. He found that when he reached his son's side, he didn't get one.

"Okay," Charlie agreed weakly, still looking at the glossy program. He tightened his grip a little, and looked at Alan. "I think you're right. I should go make some calls."

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Don laid his hands on the closest object – which happened to be a chair – and picked it up. He thrust it angrily to the other side of the room, where it bounced off a wall and dropped like a wounded soldier to the carpet below. "SHIT!" he bellowed. "The _hell_ you say!"

A.D. Merrick's sharp eyes took in the gouge in the sheetrock, but he wisely didn't mention it. "I was fairly certain you would find this disturbing," he said instead. "That's why I insisted they give me time to tell you before the story was released to the media."

Don kicked at the leg of the conference room table so hard that he broke his little toe – although it would be several hours before he noticed. "Disturbing? DISTURBING? How can this even happen?"

Merrick tore his eyes from the scuff-mark on the table leg. "Agent Eppes. Calm down and think. We make deals every day. _You_ make deals every day. It happens."

Don shoved his clenched fists into his pockets so that he wouldn't deck his boss. "I make _deals_," he growled. "The point is to get something for what you give – preferably more. What in God's name could Penfield possibly bring to the table?"

Merrick sighed. "That is on a _need-to-know_ basis," he answered, raising his voice over Don's exclamation of disgust. "The State Department feels that _I_ don't need to know, so I can't really tell you – I can only speculate. Obviously Penfield would want to avoid extradition to answer for his crimes in South America. They are less…reluctant, there, to enforce the death penalty. Even if he avoided that, death might sometimes be preferable to life in some of those prisons." He stopped, embarrassed. Don's brother had spent time in "one of those prisons," and in the beginning, Merrick hadn't done much to help. He may have even fired Granger, and now he had the good sense to stop talking.

Don had paled a little at the mention of prison, but his voice was strong when he spoke. Determined. Angry. "I'm…I'm not ignorant to what _Penfield_ wants out of all this," he said. "He can be tied to the Macedo cartel. Right there, we've got him on an 18 U.S.C. 3591. The drugs he helped bring into this country resulted in countless deaths – that's a 21 U.S.C. 848." Merrick was looking a little stunned, his mouth hanging open, and Don narrowed his eyes. "What? I looked it up. Point is, Penfield can face the federal death penalty on either one of those; not taking into account everything else! _Of course _he wants to deal his way out of that possibility. What I'm questioning is how he did it."

Merrick regarded the floor and shook his head a little, as if to clear cobwebs. When he looked back at his agent, it was with a mixture of respect and fear. Heaven help the entity that crossed Don Alan Eppes. "Uh…" He stopped, cleared his throat; started again. "I repeat, I'm just speculating. Perhaps he's giving them details on the cartel's operations – or high-level cartel contacts in the U.S."

Don was not mollified. "Charlie fed everything in Macedo's mainframe directly to Tompkins," he argued. "After that and the mysterious disappearing money, the cartel fell apart anyway. That idiot Penfield could not possibly give them any more than Charlie already managed." He snorted; then added proudly, "Hell, the kid did it when he was sick, injured, terrified, heart broken over Amita – he wasn't even operating at half-speed, and Penfield still couldn't even hope to keep up with him."

Merrick smiled grimly, thankful – not for the first time – that Charlie was on his side. "I agree. But _you_ must agree with this: Penfield is a weasel, slippery. The fact remains that he convinced someone that he has something to sell. He pled guilty to lesser charges, and made a deal. There will be no trial."

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Prisons in Chile housed nearly twice as many inmates as they were designed to hold. Even though the Americans and the international drug trafficking enforcement team had somehow managed to get Yuri transferred to a prison in Talca, away from El Lobo and possible retaliation, day-to-day survival was still a struggle. The transfer orders had called for solitary; a safety measure. This prison was as overcrowded as all the others, though, and there was none. So Rubinov started all over in the hierarchy of thieves that existed in every holding cell in the world, taking on all challengers. His bulk and his demeanor fought half the battles for him. As of yet, he had not been on the losing end of an altercation.

He was a little worried when the guards appeared to escort him to the warden. Perhaps he had beaten someone he shouldn't have. He had not been seeking the battles – but he did not back down from any, either. He wasn't entirely sure yet who was in charge at this prison. The invisible levels of command could include prisoners and guards working together, again. There could be an "El Lobo" equivalent, and it was always possible Rubinov had wiped the floor of the cell with his face, last night. Surely this warden was as crooked as every other, and now Yuri would pay for his sin.

The guards ushered him into a dark-paneled office, and Rubinov squared his shoulders and lifted his head.

He would take his punishment well.

He would leave this hellhole a man, just as he had entered.

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The way Don burst through the kitchen door, almost at a full run and breathing heavily, startled Alan into knocking over his glass of water. Don skidded to a halt at the end of the table, eyes on Charlie. Alan shoved his chair back roughly, stood quickly and looked back-and-forth between them. What level of hell awaited them now? "_Oy_," he groaned. "What? What's wrong?"

Don glanced at him, but quickly redirected his attention to his brother. "Buddy, I'm sorry. I tried to get here earlier; I wanted you to hear it from me, but I got sidetracked on a hot case that we caught late this afternoon." His voice rose, full of anger. "I couldn't get Merrick to tell me how the hell this happened." He snorted, disgusted. "Claims he doesn't know."

Charlie was mopping at the pool of water on the table with his napkin. "Don, what the hell are you talking about? Dad, can you get a dishtowel?"

When Alan didn't move, Don turned around and grabbed one off the counter himself. He thrust it in Charlie's general direction. "Look, I know you talked to Tompkins. Merrick called me at the crime scene and told me one of the major networks will break the story tonight. I tried to protest, but he said Tompkins cleared it, since he'd talked to you already. Are you….Damn. Of course you're not all right. _I'm_ not all right. This is outrageous."

Comprehension dawned on Charlie's face, then carefully-schooled impassiveness. "Oh," he answered, concentrating on the towel. "That. I actually called him about something else, but I think I know what you're talking about."

Alan leaned over and snatched the towel from him. "Well I'm glad somebody does," he grumbled, mopping at the water.

Don was taken aback by Charlie's calm reaction. His brother was talking, and he wasn't out in the garage in the middle of some equation of distraction – but Don almost wished he was. "Come on, Charlie. You have a right to be upset about this. Penfield…." He paused, replaying Charlie's comment. "Why else would you need to call Tompkins? Is something else going on?"

Charlie reddened and looked away. "Bob is a friend of mine," he defended. "I can call my friends when I want to, Agent."

Don's eyes flashed darkly and he crossed his arms over his chest, stung by the 'Agent' and biting back a retort. Alan spoke for him, turning slightly to heave the soaked dishtowel in the sink. "Charlie, son, there's no need for that. I'm sure once one of you gets around to cluing in the old man, it will be apparent that Don is just concerned about you."

Charlie sighed, and looked back at his brother. "I'm sorry. I know Dad's right. Look, Bob told me about Marshall's deal, and I'm actually kind of relieved."

Don and Alan spoke simultaneously. "What deal?" demanded Alan, but it was barely audible over Don's bellow.

"_What?_" With an obvious effort, Don forced himself to lower his voice. "I swear, Chuck, I was going to volunteer for the firing squad myself. How can you be _relieved_?"

Charlie turned a little green and swallowed thickly, not doubting for a moment a word Don had said. "I…he…it…." He pushed his own chair back, and stood unsteadily. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't be like him. I don't want to be like him…taking pleasure in the death of someone else." He trembled a little, but looked at Don defiantly. "This way," he finished in a stronger voice, "this way he's punished and I don't have to testify. Re-live everything."

Don's anger shot out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He nodded, slowly. "I can see that," he finally said. "And you shouldn't be sorry you're not like him. You should be proud."

Charlie sighed, and looked at the plate of spaghetti on the table. The parmesan was congealing on the top now, and he felt his stomach lurch. "It doesn't matter anyway," he said tonelessly, starting to turn away from his dinner. "Killing him wouldn't bring her back."

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Yuri stood in front of the warden's big wooden desk, speechless and confused. While he had not been convicted of all the crimes he had committed over the years, he knew he had been found guilty of enough. "I do not understand," he said at last. "There are many years left in this sentence." He frowned. "You search for another _Rubinov_, perhaps?"

The warden stood, having spent too much of his day on this already. "You have influential friends in many countries," he answered. "There are Americans involved, but it is one of your own countrymen who offers you the job. The Chilean government has agreed to commute your sentence if you accept the position." He smiled, a little coldly. "The musician is touring Europe for the next two years, so you will no longer be our problem, should you return to your…former career."

Americans? A Russian? Musician? Yuri risked the warden's further displeasure, speaking again. "But I know nothing of music…."

"Silence!" The warden looked over Rubinov's shoulder, toward the door. "That is not my concern. I know only that you use valuable space and resources here; and that considerable cooperation is taking place among at least three countries. This comes to me from far over my head." There was a brief rap on this door. "Ah. Your employer arrives. Do you wish to meet him?

Yuri scratched his head, turning slightly. Surely the musician misunderstood who he was. In the end, another prisoner would be released into his employ. His stomach growled and he nodded, impatient to get this over with and get back to the main population in time for lunch. "Yes."

"Enter," the warden called. Yuri focused first on the long, almost delicate fingers wrapped around the doorknob. Then he raised his eyes up the man's arms, past the lined, apprehensive face to the unkempt bushel of dark curls that cascaded from the top of his head. He gasped, letting himself remember, for just a moment.

Then he shook himself out of his stupor, and looked insolently directly at the Russian. They were baiting him, he was certain. This man was like the other – he only _looked_ like Andre. "I am sure there has been a mistake," he stated. "I would like to return to the cell block."

A flash of – _pain?_ -- crossed the younger man's face before he answered in a soft, yet sure, voice. "There has been no mistake, Yuri. I am Andre, and I have come to take you with me."

Yuri stared at him, his heart filling, and silence descended. And in it, the years and the sins melted away, and they were boys again. He rose, his eyes misting. "Andre -," he said, then stopped, as Andre stepped forward and put his arms around him. Yuri's heart swelled, almost painfully, as he embraced him, and dimly he wondered how this had happened – who had set him free. It didn't matter though, he knew, as he felt his brother's embrace. Finally, after all of the years of hardship and heartbreak, Yuri Rubinov was going home.

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Marshall sat chained to the prisoner next to him, a rather humongous, robust individual who apparently had no passing familiarity with the concept of showers. He tried to distract himself from the aroma – which was entirely too pungent to stem from any one person, so maybe none of them understood personal hygiene – by congratulating himself thoroughly. Yes, he was unfortunately headed for Leavenworth, there was that. _BUT_, at least it wasn't a South American death row – or even an American one, for that matter. He had managed to deal his way to life. He had no doubt that once the warden of this establishment discovered his genius, Marshall Penfield would be teaching again. Running the library. Hell, he'd be that guy from _Shawshank Redemption_ within the week.

He was pulled rudely from his thoughts when the brute next to him leaned in his direction, wafting an odiferous affront. Marshall tried to lean further away, but he sat next to the window, and the glass eventually stopped him.

His seatmate belched loudly. Penfield pursed his lips and squeezed shut his eyes. Apparently the picture was too much for the other man. "Sweetheart," came a breathy growl in his ear, and Marshall's eyes popped back open.

"I beg your pardon?" he huffed, lifting his manacled wrists off his lap.

His new friend grinned, revealing a smile missing several teeth. "Ah, honey," he moaned. "I been waiting for you my whole life."

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Months later, Charlie sat on the bench facing the koi pond, his eyes closed. His face was tilted to the setting sun, and a warm early-spring breeze gently danced in his curls. He had healed, for the most part. He could walk without a limp, his rift with his brother had mended; the horrible dreams had faded. He was whole again, except for one thing.

The breeze kissed him again, and he could almost believe that the soft wind was actually Amita's fingers. He could almost feel her sitting next to him on the bench. He could almost hear her laughter in the quiet gurgling of the pond.

Sitting there, he could remember everything – from the mundane to the magnificent – and he reveled in the memories. Once stolen from him, and now, thankfully, wholly his own again. They had come back to him as Don had predicted they would, after he had time to grieve, to really mourn her. Charlie thanked the Lord of the Universe for the memories, every day.

Memories were all he had left.

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The End

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_**A/N: Oh, you have made The Raccoons so happy. We are delighted that so many of you enjoyed our small tale. Some questions, however, remain. For instance: How did Macedo piss off Marlita so badly? Did Macedo truly die when the plane went down? Will Marshall marry in prison? Will he and Charlie ever face each other again? Will Alan get fed up with the whole thing and run away with Minerva? Most importantly, can the Rabid Raccoons smell a sequel?**_


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